


To a Garden Long Deserted

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2014-05-06
Packaged: 2018-01-23 17:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1574390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing, pre-canon. The build up to Ryouma's inevitable betrayal, all in scenes prior to the current storyline by several years. </p><p>It's not exactly unexpected for Ryouma to show up in Takatora's life again. He's brilliant, and saving the world requires brilliant people. That doesn't mean that meeting Ryouma again isn't akin to being hit by a truck.</p><p>(If you need a dose of 'that time before things went batshit crazy', this is for all of you.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Paranoid_Affections](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paranoid_Affections/gifts).



Mornings are, thankfully, a stand out as monotonous. 

 

Kureshima Takatora does enjoy the monotonous when it's productive, easily scheduled, and continuously on time. Most of his mornings tend to be this way, especially when he makes an effort to leave early--that is, before his little brother rises and leaves for classes. 

 

This morning, however, decides to be _different._

 

There's already something wrong. Takatora can tell when he stares at his own office door, the keypad unlocked and the door left slightly ajar. That simply won't do. Was this his fault? Did he somehow leave his office without locking up the night prior? Is he slipping? Admittedly, he's been told that he has needed more sleep since the age of five, but to be that careless…

 

No, there's someone _in there._

 

Well, not for long at this rate. Irritated, Takatora stops glaring at the door long enough to open it, briefcase slung onto the nearest chair with a thump. Yes, sitting at his desk, there's _someone_ , looking far too content to be enjoying the view of morning over Zawame. "Whoever you are, get up." 

 

Breaking their neck _might_ protect some of Yggdrasill's secrets. (How did they break the codes on his door, anyway?)

 

Sengoku Ryouma has to work hard not to rub his hands together like he’s enjoying this far too much, when...well, he is. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth without his permission as he slowly spins in the swivel chair to face Takatora.

 

“Well, well, you finally got here. And they told me you were _so_ punctual. It’s hard to find good help these days, isn’t it?” 

 

No name, not yet. That’s a delightful surprise for later, assuming Takatora has forgotten all about high school and long weekend afternoons before everything got so _serious_. He doesn’t have the face of a man who remembers lazy weekend afternoons, not anymore. Ryouma hadn’t been expecting that, and tells himself it’s better this way. He _does_ like surprises.

 

What's _difficult_ is not staring, slack-jawed, like an idiot for a solid five minutes.

 

Takatora stops himself before it can go that far, but he's also very certain that he had a look of utter disbelief for at least a few seconds, which is less than good. Horrible, really, especially when one Sengoku Ryouma looks so infinitely pleased with himself. 

 

He still considers breaking his neck…but now his head hurts too much for that, especially when it all _dawns_ on him--unfortunately. 

 

"You," Takatora slowly says, "are the new head researcher we just hired." A muscle in his jaw twitches. "Sengoku--I saw that name, but I didn't expect…" _You_. 

 

“I can’t help but make an entrance.” Sengoku raises an eyebrow, leaning forward to rest his elbows on Takatora’s desk. “Imagine my surprise when I found out who my new boss was. Rather, don’t. I found out who you really were three days after you ‘moved away,’ Takatora.”

 

Ah. He hadn’t intended to use his first name so soon. Too late to go back now. There’s no way Takatora will overlook it, no way he can, in his position. What a shame; Ryouma can think of several more interesting positions for the two of them. Atop the rubble of this dying world, for one.

 

This is a headache that he doesn't need.

 

Starting off the day with a headache is unusual, obnoxious, and frankly, a precursor to a slew of other failures. It sets Takatora's teeth on edge, and he has to firmly resist the urge to open up the nearest window and toss Ryouma out of it by the back of his lab coat. 

 

That being said, it sends an odd, warming chill down his spine to hear his first name after _so long_. 

 

"…Get out of my chair," is the weary retort he offers instead. "I haven't seen you for years, and you work for me now. Act like it and don't come into my office like this again." 

 

Ryouma’s eyes go wide, and he rocks back, lacing his fingers behind his head. He only barely stops himself from putting his feet up on the desk (he’s not an animal, after all, and Takatora couldn’t be expected to endure that). “Working for you, is that how it is? Here they told me I’d be working with you. I was so looking forward to that.”

 

Takatora is not going to take a seat in one of his _other_ chairs. He wants his own chair back, damn it, and he does hate standing when it's Ryouma that should be. It takes effort to keep his face impassive. "Yes, _for_ me. Get up, Ryouma." It slips out, obnoxiously, and he can't even be that angry about it. 

 

The smile spreads across Ryouma’s face. For that, for that moment of seeing _that_ Takatora again, he can stand. “I like this chair,” he announces, kicking his legs out as he stands. “I want one just like it installed in my lab. There you go, I kept it nice and warm for you.”

 

Maybe, if he humors Ryouma, he'll behave. That is something that Takatora remembers vividly from when they were younger. "I'll see what I can do," he says tiredly, and only belatedly catches himself staring at how _long_ Ryouma's legs are now. It's probably the jeans (who wears those to work except some low class slacker, dear god) that are practically painted on. Right. Also interesting: the ceiling. "Please don't come into my office like this again."

 

Ryouma sketches a casual salute with one finger. He nearly reaches out and touches the other man...but no. That can wait. Oh, he has plans. “Right, _Chief Director Kureshima_ ,” he says, mockery in every word. “I’ll just summon you to my office every time we need to talk. That sounds convenient for me.”

 

"Or," Takatora blandly retorts, sinking down into his chair at long last, "you could call, like any normal person. You can stay in your lab, it's where you belong." 

 

“If I were normal,” Ryouma says, swiveling on his hip and walking backwards for a few steps, “an esteemed personage like you would never have hired me...Takatora.” With a wave of his fingers, he slips out of the room. 

 

It’s probably bad form to mentally hi-five himself on a conversation _very_ well done.

 

Takatora finds himself alone then, and horrified at his heightened blood pressure…which is definitely causing that nasty side effect of arousal, he's sure. Not those jeans. No.

 

He only has himself to blame--and that just makes his desk look more inviting to slam his head down into (he barely refrains).

 

It doesn't get better.

 

Takatora deigns to look back over all of the potentials previously surveyed, and there it is in plain black and white: _Sengoku Ryouma_. Names mean little to him at the end of the day so long as they belong to someone reliable and trustworthy, but oh, he should have _realized_ , especially when it's attached casually to enough schooling to make _him_ feel inadequate in certain ways.

 

This was a mistake--a very large one, and it makes Takatora consider alcohol with his coffee. 

 

_"I found out who you really were three days after you ‘moved away.'"_

 

Awkward.

 

No, it's only awkward if he makes it awkward. There's no need for that, especially when it requires that he think of himself as a teenager again, and that's dreadful. Instead, Takatora just has that damned chair left in Ryouma's lab and hopes that he's left well alone until any and all aspects of Ryouma's research need approval or present great deals of progress. That can't be _too_ much to ask for. 

 

Takatora denies his video calls. He even does it when he _knows_ Ryouma has access to pretty much any lab equipment that he could possibly want, which very much does include camera and video access to every room in the entire complex.

 

Well, Takatora might not think of it in those terms, but Ryouma is pretty sure he should start. 

 

The point is, Ryouma can visually _watch_ Takatora ignore his video calls. _Can’t call you, can’t come to your office...you leave me little choice, Mr. Fancy Director Kureshima._

 

So he does what any sane man would do, surely.

 

Ten minutes later, a three-foot lemon picks the lock on Takatora’s office door and walks in on jointed metal legs to deliver a note from him. That’s normal, right?

 

_Fate of humanity in our hands, isn’t it? Come to my lab or next time it will be an entire bunch of grapes._

 

_PS: You can lick him if you want. It’s a sweet lemon!_

 

_PPS: Tried to reach you normally. Important research. Need a naked man for trials._

 

Takatora, once again, considers firing him and finding someone else. 

 

 _This is just too awkward_ one part of his brain says, and the other tells him, very firmly and logically, that there _isn't anyone else._ It's Sengoku Ryouma or _no one_ , and the latter isn't acceptable. 

 

 _Deal with it_ , he tells himself sourly, all while dropkicking that lemon the whole way down to Ryouma's lab. It makes an odd squealing sound when he does, and he's not sure if he hates that or not.

 

"It's the bypassing of my locks that is the part I hate the most," Takatora announces upon arriving, sure to keep his expression dour, _not_ put out. The latter is giving Ryouma too much credit. "Especially if it's with a _lemon_ , apparently." _Why_ a lemon, really. 

 

Ryouma blinks, trying not to show too much delight at having pried Takatora away from his sad desk. “Lemons are delicious,” he informs his boss seriously. He leads him over to one corner of his lab, with a teenage boy (an intern, apparently) crouched on a cot, looking like he’s just run a marathon. “Hey, have you met Nozomi here? He’s our test subject.”

 

He beams, clapping the shivering young man on the shoulder, not that he’s seeing much of anything right now. “Guess how long it’s been since he ate or used the bathroom. Just guess.” He’s probably a little _too_ excited...but with the discovery of Helheim fresh in his memory, it’s hard not to be happy about any little step forward.

 

"I hate guessing," Takatora tells him very seriously. He also hates being wrong, and judging by the absolute glee on his head researcher's face, he's _going_ to be wrong no matter what he attempts. 

 

…Also, depriving someone of food seems less than ideal, but--the greater good comes first, and this obviously has a purpose. Ryouma just doesn't have to look so pleased about it. Takatora, in general, is never pleased.

 

“Two weeks.” Ryouma pokes the boy’s belly. “Not an ounce of fat loss! I’ve been weighing him every day, obviously.” His eyes shine a little when he turns to face Takatora. “No hair loss, no skin decay, no liver damage. Some kidney failure, but kidneys are easy to grow.” Maybe he can give them a more pleasing shape while he does. After all, Yggdrasil produces most of the bio-organs on sale for the public these days. Takatora definitely has an “in” in that department.

 

Takatora exhales a slow breath through his nose. He knows what Ryouma _wants_ him to ask next, and it's something of a flashback to when they were younger, when there was always this inevitable lead up to… "How?" 

 

“Because I’m a genius.” No one really needs to tell him that. After all, it’s only taken him a few months to do what Yggdrasil’s scientists had been working on for years. Granted, there’s a fire lit under his ass by the threat of Helheim, but that’s no excuse for previous sub-par work. “Ah, before you get too excited, there’s lots of kinks to iron out. Right now it’s basically in conservation mode, you know? But if he were to move around a lot, he’d start losing muscle mass or fat reserves. I can fix that,” he says, confident that it’s the case, and hops up on his desk, legs swinging. “Do I get my grant now? I need a new laser.”

 

 _Why do you need a new laser_ is on the tip of Takatora's tongue, but he decides to just not even bother. As time goes on, he just remembers more and more about Ryouma, and why it's less good to ask questions that he doesn't even really want to know the answer of in the first place. Better is continuing to look unimpressed. "If that's all you have to show me right now, I'm not convinced." 

 

Ryouma rolls his eyes. “Don’t be sour, you didn’t even lick my lemon.” A flick of his eyebrow makes that a little more innuendo than not, though doubtless that goes right over Takatora’s head the way his sexual advances always have. _Soon_. Before that, he tosses Takatora a ripe Lockseed--melon, of course. Then, he tosses over a wristband, a heavy metal-filled velcro contraption. “Take your clothes off and put that on.”

 

Takatora hopes that the look he's giving Ryouma is more skepticism than he's seen in his whole lifetime. "You have test subjects for this kind of thing." _Or did you spend that budget on that damned lemon._

 

Ryouma’s mouth twists. “I _use_ my test subjects. I just thought this would be a more fun way for you to see what your money is being used on. Of course, if you don’t _want_ to be part of the future, I can stop announcing my most exciting breakthroughs to you.”

 

Sengoku Ryouma is, forever and always, a problem, and this is _why_. Takatora finds that he hates the way the other man sulks, and it really has nothing to do with the way that he usually just hates it on other people because they're whiny and awful. It's the fact that Ryouma has gone from excited to sulky in about two seconds and _he's_ the cause--

 

Also, he _does_ enjoy being heavily involved in the research himself, damn it all. 

 

"… _All_ of my clothes?" Takatora just wishes he didn't sound so defeated about it, especially when he's already unbuttoning his jacket.

 

The smile is back, and Ryouma chews slowly on one thumbnail, not at all shy about watching. “Unless it offends your tender sense of modesty. I’m a man of science, Takatora. I want to make sure I can see any possible side effects.” It’s not a _lie_.

 

That at least sounds legitimate enough for Takatora to put it aside and decide to just go with it. Science. Right. _More like I'm sixteen again, obviously._

 

The button-down comes off next as he toes off his shoes, and it's with a vague afterthought that Takatora considers his father, and thinking about how he'd _highly_ disapprove of his heir becoming the test subject in this circumstance. Who better, though? If he is going to be the one that leads them out of this inevitability…

 

Slacks off, underwear off (what is the point of this, someone inform him immediately, whatever, Ryouma saw him naked when he was a child and that was worse), wristband on--Takatora eyeballs the lock seed in his grasp, again skeptical. "We've been trying to harness the power of these for years," he points out, "and I'm assuming you're telling me you've done it already."

 

“Ah, no.” Ryouma grins. “Well, not entirely. Some, sure. Yeah, your previous researchers were pretty bad.” He’s seen their qualifications. They were the best in the field, the best that have ever existed. Amateurs. “Put the lockseed in the patch and velcro it in. I’m gonna make it sexier,” he decides. Velcro isn’t sexy. “You’re probably going to taste some melon.” Ryouma’s got a couple melons in his sights right now, watching Takatora’s pectoral muscles flex--yeah, _yeah_. Definitely chose the right fruit.

 

That isn't even worth a glare _._

 

 _Why does this require tasting melon, why does it require being naked, why._ There are a dozen other questions flitting through Takatora's mind, but he decides, again, not to bother until he actually sees something work. _At least this is more progress than anyone else has ever presented us with._

 

Doing as he's told, the lockseed--peculiarly--snaps into place seemingly on its own accord, flashing brightly before announcing "Melon Arms!" 

 

Yes, that's definitely a melon taste in his mouth, and honestly, that's about the strangest thing. The suit's a given, the armor surprisingly lightweight, but watching a Helheim crack appear to bring it forth is an oddity _._ Just how much research has Ryouma _done_ in only a few months' time?

 

"…The problem," Takatora grinds out, wishing Ryouma could see him glare through his helmet, "is that my main question involves your obsession with fruit." 

 

Ryouma shrugs. “They’re already fruit. I figured I might as well make them cute fruit.”

 

He nibbles on his lower lip as he looks over Takatora, checking him out from boots to the tip of his horns. Yes, this was definitely the right suit, but already he’s filing a thousand mental notes about what to change for next time. The chestplates, the shoulderplates, the waist is _no_ good, the boots are tacky--how had it looked good on the drawing board, but awful on Takatora? No, that’s no good.

 

Well, he supposes _some_ small measure of happiness can be allowed. After all, he’d done a good job in making sure the suit actually fits. “Hmm,” he murmurs, walking around and poking, prodding at things. “Obviously it’s still very, very early days, but I should be able to come up with a functional one soon. It’s supposed to help you survive in Helheim’s climate, you know? I figured something rather _combative_ might be appropriate. Sorry, I know that wasn’t in the brief.” He’s not sorry. This will do better at protecting Takatora than the brief, which had all been about filtering out toxins and sustaining life. _Boring_. He can do much better than that.

 

"It's fine. Again, this is more progress than we've seen in some time." Ryouma does need to stop prodding at him, though. Tasting melon and having someone poke at him isn't in any guidelines, and Takatora does hate that. He draws in a deep breath, curling one hand experimentally into a fist. "Dealing with Helheim as swiftly as possible is the goal, and if it means a more hands-on approach, so be it. If you poke my back one more time, I'm _going_ to test this thing out on you." 

 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s why I haven’t powered it up yet.” There’s no trace of apology in Ryouma’s grin. “I’ve had some ideas about how to incorporate the power of the lockseeds into the suit, but so far it just comes through in bursts, and it ruins the powerful locks.” And his test subjects occasionally, oops. “Mostly so far we’ve got melon flavor and maybe a tough exterior, hence the poking. Take it off, will you? I need to see if it fit you properly and you don’t have any marks.”

 

"Fine." He also _feels_ fine, even if he's going to be tasting melon for what Takatora is sure is hours. Disengaging the lock is also painless, and the suit dissolves in the next burst--which also comes with more flavoring. Great. "Melon, of all things," he crossly mutters.

 

“Melon is the most aesthetically pleasing and protective fruit,” Ryouma says absently, looking Takatora over as he takes the wristband back. That velcro noise is _awful_. Also...ah. Damn science. “Takatora,” he says, trying to stay as clinically detached as he personally ever can, “I genuinely need to know for the sake of science whether I arouse you, or whether this is a side effect.” Not the way he wanted to lead into talking about Takatora’s dick, but needs must.

 

The horrifying problem, yet again, is Sengoku Ryouma in all forms, coupled with the fact that Takatora is very much used to ignoring his body's reactions to things until they just go away.

 

That _usually_ works.

 

"I _did_ tell you to stop touching me," Takatora stiffly retorts, snatching up his clothing as calmly as he can manage. If he doesn't act too flustered, this won't be an ordeal. If he doesn't look at Ryouma and his tight jeans and the way he always cocks his hip out, this won't…keep happening. 

 

 _Stop it this instant_ he silently orders his dick, which does absolutely nothing. Of _course_. 

 

“Oi.” Ryouma refrains from touching Takatora at the moment. That, while satisfying, would hardly help out in the name of science. “You don’t have to be embarrassed, _Ta~ka~to~ra_. It happened to one of the test subjects, too.” He shrugs. “But he might have just been into it. I seriously need to know if it’s a side effect, or if it’s…” He leaves that hanging. To his own credit, he’s sure, he doesn’t look down to observe.

 

"It's not a side effect." Curt and to the point, and that's all that need be said, anyway. Takatora dresses with sharp precision, even if it takes a bit of effort to tuck himself into his pants. "Consider your grant approved. Do you need anything else?"

 

Ryouma _does_ like having his grant approved. He sits in his swivel chair, one long leg folded over the other. “I got a lot of great data, I’m happy.” He looks down, then slowly up through his lashes. “Do _you_ need anything else from _me_ , Takatora?”

 

"No more lock picking," Takatora flatly snaps, and promptly turns on his heel to stalk away before he can spare another moment looking at Ryouma and having his blood boil against his will. This is unprecedented. Unacceptable, more specifically, and that he does not like.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Takatora _does_ enjoy normalcy. 

 

One aspect of normalcy that most men enjoy, however, is something he could rather do without, and that's dating. And sex. In general. 

 

He's been with plenty of women (two) and each time, it was very scheduled, very uncomfortable, and very boring. This is the sort of thing that makes Takatora wonder why dating is even necessary. He could be working instead. He prefers it.

 

This is, in fact, what he tells the perfectly nice woman that hesitantly proposes that they go out for dinner. Thank you, but he has work very late today. There's just too much to do, and of course she understands. 

 

Unfortunately, he's been too efficient today in his attempts to forget about the horror of dating, and that means that he's actually done _early_. 

 

That never happens.

 

After spending an extra, solid hour cleaning out his desk when it's already perfectly in order, Takatora starts to make poor decisions, which include locking up, and meandering down to Ryouma's lab instead. He _does_ tend to stay later than most, which is a good thing to know about. For all of his strangeness, he at least seems to take his research seriously. 

 

The door is ajar, and Takatora steps inside, satisfied to see that he's not wrong, and Ryouma is, indeed, still here. No one else is, but that's nothing new, and honestly, a godsend. It's still uncomfortable talking to Ryouma around any other employees, considering the baffling task of juggling first names. 

 

Breakthroughs, Ryouma thinks in annoyance, never come when he’s ready for them.

 

No, it _has_ to be an hour before everyone goes home, on a _Friday_ no less, that something finally makes _sense_ in the issue he’s been working on for months. At least, that’s what time it was when he’d first gotten the idea. Ryouma has no idea what time it is now. Clocks stop mattering when there’s sufficient science to keep him occupied.

 

The cracks--there _could_ be a way of stabilizing one. If there is, if there’s a way to make just one and hold it open, his research could accelerate at untold speeds. No more hurtling to the nearest known location as soon as he hears about one, only to pray that it doesn’t shut before he can make it back to the other side. 

 

Most ideal, of course, would be to design a means of opening and closing the cracks at will. Next, Ryouma supposes he’ll simply turn lead into fragrant, edible gold, as long as he’s considering juggling the space-time continuum as if it’s so much a child’s toy.

 

Someone is in his lab, and maybe has been for a while, Ryouma has no idea. No alarms have beeped, and Ryouma can’t be fucking bothered to look up from his microscope. “Hand me the slides on the round table,” he orders, carefully adjusting the magnification. How _dare_ these things work, but only on a molecular level?

 

There's a shocking amount of relief to know that not only is Ryouma still here, but he's actually still hard at work, not just creating cute fruit robots. Takatora isn't sure _why_ he's so relieved about that, but…

 

He shrugs it off, and silently passes the slides over as he's told before leaning back against the nearest unoccupied table edge to watch. "If you need after-hours assistants in the future, that can be arranged." 

 

Ryouma responds to that with a noncommittal grunt, taking the slides and working quickly, sliding in the new fluids he’s been irradiating for the last twenty minutes. There-- _that’s_ the particle he’s been searching for, piece of shit _coward_ that it is. 

 

He lets out a whoop of delight, zooming back in his chair to the centrifuge. He knows the formula now, he’s _got it,_ and he flips the lever to whirl the machine into gear as the particles separate like he’d _known_ they would, yes, as soon as he adds the irradiated particles.

 

There--they’re separating perfectly, and even more importantly, _holding_. Ryouma brushes the hair back from his face, grinning like an idiot, surprised to feel sweat on his hand. What a rush.

 

A few moments later, memory and sense kick in again, and his head whips around in surprise. “Oh! Takatora! Ahhh, you’re here, yay, let me show you what I just figured out!” He might be grabbing Takatora’s wrist and hand a little more familiarly than the man is used to, but that’s good for him.

 

Takatora's eyebrows raise, but he allows the pull, if only because his mind clicks off for one stupid, ridiculous second and registers Ryouma as something closer to _cute_ rather than _terrible threat to reputation._ Right. "It must be good if you're staying this late." 

 

“I stabilized the Terran radial currents in conjunction with Helheim atmospheric currents at a constant level of input/output neutrality!” Ryouma’s eyes are lit up like Zawame city at night, and he drags Takatora over to the centrifuge. “The particles interact with our world as an infestation only on a macromolecular level, Takatora, _look_ , on a subatomic micromolecular level the separation can be overcome, but not necessarily destroyed!” 

 

He brushes the hair back from his face, pointing triumphantly to the shimmering goop in the machine. “I can keep a crack open as long as I want. Uh, theoretically. No, I’m awesome, I can do it, I just need to upgrade two of my lasers, and I know how, I can  have it done this weekend.”

 

That's more than just good. There's a glimmer of excitement that rakes through Takatora when he realizes what it really means, and what Ryouma has accomplished. He exhales the breath that he's been holding, and relief over _progress_ floods his system instead. It's moot to ask _how sure are you_ , because Ryouma is obviously very sure, but--"Do you need anything else? If it can make this happen faster, then name it." 

 

“I need a break,” Ryouma says immediately, and turns away from the centrifuge. “I need to think about something else so this can be going at the back of my mind for about three and a half hours. Don’t judge, it’s how I focus best.” He grins ruefully. “Then I’ll probably be here all weekend, and we’ll just have to wait for a crack. Want to distract me?”

 

"So in other words, you haven't changed a bit." Takatora still finds himself continuously surprised by this, even after a year and a half of employing this lunatic. He shrugs, leaning away. "Though I'm not sure if I'm very useful as a distraction. Frankly--" Well, it's time to come clean, he supposes. "Frankly, I came down here to kill a bit of time myself. I'm usually working much later, but I was much too…efficient today." 

 

Ryouma raises an eyebrow, and leans back on his desk, crossing his legs. “Who were you avoiding, hmm? Is it the little brother again?” _He’d_ avoid that creep, if he were Takatora. Ryouma isn’t afraid of Mitsuzane by a longshot, even finds him interesting, but that’s a long way from wanting to see Takatora dealing with it. “Hey, do you want to get out of here? Go down to the city in plainclothes and hit up a bar?” He’s willing to bet his pretty new centrifuge the only time Takatora has ever done that was _their_ last night together, just before Takatora had “moved away” at the end of high school. At least their IDs aren’t fake now.

 

Takatora offers him a sour look. "I'm not _avoiding_ anyone." Except that potential date. "I just dislike getting home too early." That's not entirely untrue. Also untrue: that he's used to Ryouma's legs by now. Never. He's never going to be used to them. He breathes in slow and deep and looks to the other side of the lab. "I'm not particularly fond of that idea, so I think I'll pass."

 

Ryouma rolls his eyes. “Boring, as usual. Do you eat?” A slow grin steals across his face, and he tosses up a key to the minifridge in the corner. “I have some sweets in there if you want to indulge. Better eat while we still can, hmm? What have we got left, five years of food before it all turns into Helheim fruits?” He can’t say he sounds particularly concerned about it. After all, _he’s_ one of the chosen. Thanks for that, large brain.

 

Takatora does hate that his resolve wavers. It's just because he wants to avoid _going_ anywhere. "I'm assuming that's supposed to be funny." Another heartbeat of a moment, and--"…What do you have stashed in there?" 

 

“It’s going to happen whether it’s funny or not.” Ryouma tosses the key to Takatora, gesturing magnanimously. “Some new bakery just popped up, one of my assistants kindly bought me a cake. I got distracted by my research before I could eat it.”

 

Takatora is starting to feel as if he's at an unfair advantage all the time. He bites back a sigh and walks over, unlocking it and feeling as if he's opened up some sort of treasure chest. That isn't just a cake. It's a thing of chocolate beauty. He wants to slap himself across the face for thinking that. "Your assistant clearly wants to be in your good graces," he mutters, pulling the thing out and setting it down onto the emptiest table. 

 

Ryouma pulls out a long spoon and a fork and passes them over, keeping one for himself. “We can eat the whole cake if we want,” he confides with a wicked grin. There’s still the lingering feeling that he isn’t quite an adult, and he _does_ like pushing boundaries. “Nn, Takatora, you still like cake, right?”

 

 _Yes_. "From time to time." It's stressful to just think of digging into the whole cake itself, but…ugh. Here he goes, pulling up a chair. "You obviously still do." 

 

“Mm, I like sweet things.” Ryouma takes a spoonful of cake, and his eyes lid in pleasure. He lets out a low sound, leaning back in his chair. “And sour things. Mm, and cute things.”

 

"Most everything, by the sound of it," Takatora deadpans. He pointedly refuses to look at Ryouma when he's making any and all sounds like that, but to be fair--one spoonful of that cake sort of proves _why_ he's making that sound.  He sinks back slowly, and immediately goes in for another bite. 

 

“Basically,” Ryouma agrees. “I like cake, and science, and men who look great in tailored dark suits, too.”

 

The chocolate haze makes that take a second. It also makes it more difficult to filter out a low, annoyed: "You're not the only one." Whatever. It's Ryouma. Takatora has firmly decided that he's allowed to complain to someone, and it can be Ryouma. Ryouma flirts with everything that moves, too, so he should be used to being complained to. 

 

The urge to wrap Takatora in a blanket and keep him safe from just about everything isn’t a new one, but Ryouma still resists. He runs through what he knows of personnel files, and mentally clicks on a name. “Yamamoto Haruna,” he says decisively, licking the back of his spoon after another delicious mouthful. “Did she finally get up the guts to ask you out? Don’t do it, she’s not smart enough even to stick your dick in.”

 

"How did you know? Don't answer that." Talking about dating and sex is apparently just as uncomfortable as actually doing it. Great. Takatora stabs his spoon down into the cake again. "Of course I turned her down. I don't have time for such things."

 

 _You have time to eat cake with me._ Ryouma keeps that to himself. More important is stuffing Takatora full of cake. Yes, that’s what he’s into tonight. “Not with someone like her, anyway. I mean, it’s not like you’re a virgin.” That’s a big triumphant bite of cake he takes, as he’s earned it.

 

Takatora offers him a brief, faintly cross look, and deliberately spoons a strawberry off of the top of the cake. "Of course I'm not. Either way, though, I simply don't have the patience for something as uncomfortable and boring as that." 

 

Oh, dear lord. If Takatora is going to be like this… 

 

Ryouma retaliates by snatching a slice of kiwi and popping it into his mouth. Bluntly, he asks, “Have you ever fucked a man?” If there were anyone in the world he could surprise with that question, it would be Takatora--but Ryouma has _some_ faint hope that he’s misjudged his old friend in that regard.

 

Grace and skill keeps Takatora from choking on that strawberry. "No, and it wouldn't make a difference." He's very sure of this.

 

Precious Takatora. Ryouma’s mouth tilts up at the side, and he chases the kiwi with a sweet bite of cake. “It wouldn’t be uncomfortable and boring with me.” He couldn’t be more positive about that than if Takatora had challenged him to a science-off.

 

Takatora is just not going to look at him right now. Tiresome, but when is anything not with Ryouma? "You're probably right about half of that." That's a joke, not an acceptance of any offer. Hopefully, Ryouma understands. 

 

Ryouma’s eyes narrow. Is Takatora actually making a joke? Oh, shit, oh, oh, oh shit. He tries to stifle a laugh, but it gets the better of him, and he winds up slamming a hand down on the table as he giggles. Oh, Takatora, honey, _no_.

 

 _Yes_ , Takatora smugly thinks, even though his expression doesn't change with another bite of cake, _I am capable of being hilarious._ "In all seriousness," he dryly says over Ryouma's snickering, "I think every aspect of dating and sexuality is tedious, and I can't help but remind you that you _do_ work for me." 

 

Ryouma covers his mouth, trying to stop, and eventually succeeds. “Who offered?” he asks, twirling his spoon between his long fingers as he leans back in his chair. “I just said it wouldn’t be uncomfortable and boring with me.” He looks Takatora up and down, and fuck it. “I’d have done it with you back in high school. Ehh, but your Daddy wouldn’t have liked that, hmm?”

 

 _It sounded like an offer_ Takatora begrudgingly thinks, but instead of voicing that, he just gives the other man a put out stare. "You had sex with everyone back in high school. I'm not sure that's saying very much." They aren't going to talk about his father. 

 

“You’re not wrong,” Ryouma agrees with a grin. “I’m pickier now.” He leans forward, and just barely refrains from tapping those excellent muscles. “You weren’t interested in girls in high school. Like, at all. Honestly, I always had you pegged as ‘Asexual, what a shame for me.’”

 

"That's because girls are typically vapid and not worth wasting my time on." Takatora snorts, and focuses on the cake, which is honestly the only good thing right now. "I never understood the point in being with someone that you can't even have a conversation with."

 

“Uh huh.” Ryouma raises an eyebrow. “And boys? You said it wouldn’t be any different. How do you know? Scientists demand actual empirical evidence, Takatora.” _And we’re having a conversation right now._

 

"Men are just as vapid as women on most days," Takatora points out wearily. "There is nothing about them that is more or less appealing."

 

“I’m not vapid.” Yes, that’s important to point out. “Don’t call me boring, either.”

 

"I didn't say you were vapid or boring. This isn't about you." 

 

Ryouma laughs. “That’s my own fault, then. I don’t like it when things aren’t about me.” He uncrosses his legs, not shying away from eye contact. “How come I don’t count? If you don’t think I’m a man, I can prove you wrong there.”

 

Takatora exhales. "I know you're a man, Ryouma." _Why are you making this so much more awkward._ "You work for me. You're…I've known you for years. This doesn't need to be a discussion." 

 

“Is it because I said I wasn’t offering?” Ryouma leans forward, scooting in slightly. No matter what, he’s positive, he’s not going to say anything embarrassing. He’s not here to _ask_ for anything, god. Everything he can think of to say either sounds shockingly slutty (not something he’s opposed to, actually something he’s in favor of, it just won’t do much for Takatora) or like some stupid lovesick girl from a light novel. “You know I like to have discussions.”

 

"This doesn't need a discussion." He sounds like a broken record, to be sure, and now he's uncomfortable enough to put down his spoon. "You work for me, you're…my acquaintance--" Awkward, but Ryouma is about the closest thing _to_ that, Takatora supposes, "and you did say you weren't offering, but the former two points still hold the same weight." 

 

“Ho?” That’s….maybe progress. Takatora is a hard man to get close to, and Ryouma doesn’t like that, 90% of the time, in his conquests. “Nn, I don’t like the sound of _offering_. I don’t want you to think I’m _available_ to you or anything. That _would_ be weird, eh, Director Kureshima?” Even sarcastically, the words are stale and dead on his tongue. “I wouldn’t do that with my boss.” His eyes flick up, and he adds, a little less sardonically, a little softer, “But it would be different with my old friend Takatora, wouldn’t it?”

 

Takatora opens his mouth, an immediate and firm rejection on his tongue, but it just doesn't happen. That's…new. Troublesome. Like most things with Ryouma, really. "…I believe I've misspoken. I wasn't trying to imply that you would be making yourself…available. That sort of arrangement wouldn't interest me in the first place." He draws in a slow, even breath. "I'm not entirely certain what you expect of me either way, though," he finally admits, slouching back into his chair slightly. "I've come to understand that I am not what most consider 'dating material.'" 

 

Ryouma groans, and he slumps forward, thunking his head against the desk. “I just want to suck your cock,” he moans, trying not to tear his hair out. “You’re making everything so _difficult_.”

 

Takatora blinks hard. "Ah." He's not going to blush at that. If he does, he'll kill himself. "I…apologize?" 

 

“Just tell me head-on,” Ryouma insists, propping his head up on his arms, glaring a little. “Am I barking up the wrong tree here? I mean, I’ll suck your dick. I literally will right now, because it’s you and I’ve wanted to do that for a really long time, but if you don’t want that, then whatever, we’ll just finish the cake.”

 

Notably, this is unscheduled, and that immediately makes Takatora feel some odd mix of anxiety and excitement that he's not _entirely_ sure is pleasant. He dares to look over at Ryouma--with his cheekbones and eyelashes and that really unprofessional streak of color through his hair--and swallows hard. _Not again_ he firmly tells his dick before it starts reacting, as if that's _ever_ going to change anything. 

 

 _Isn't there supposed to be more to it than that_ is the other thing that comes to mind, but instead--"I don't want to be another one of your conquests, Ryouma." Which is actually _also_ very valid, Takatora thinks. 

 

“That,” Ryouma informs him, “is not the same as saying you don’t want me to. Always making it complicated.” 

 

He reaches out against his better judgment, and gently touches Takatora’s face. “It’s also not something you could ever be, idiot. You’re always going to be more to me than that.”

 

Against _his_ better judgement, Takatora feels a knot unwind between his shoulder blades with his next breath, and he leans into the touch, albeit only slightly. Even that is enough to send electricity down his spine, because _no one_ touches him, and this is the second time today that Ryouma has just casually reached out and set fingertips to skin. 

 

"I'm not trying to make it more complicated than it already is." Almost warily, his hand slides up, fingers curling over the back of Ryouma's wrist, then over his hand where it rests against Takatora's face. "This isn't high school anymore, and you know that." 

 

Well, that little feeling in his chest when Takatora touches him is just _stupid_. Ryouma is pretty sure he knows better than to expect anything from this man of all men. Nope, looks like he doesn’t. Ah, he could feel worse about that. “Exactly,” he says, not moving his hand. “Now you don’t have anyone telling you what you can and can’t do. And you _know_ I can keep secrets, or you’d never have made me the Chief Researcher.” Dammit, somehow this became him asking for sex somehow, which was _never_ the goal.

 

Takatora would like to say that it isn't a matter of it being kept secret, but that's untrue. Sleeping with employees so openly…no, he doesn't need that reputation. His fingers curl briefly against the back of Ryouma's hand, and for a moment, he resolves to push the other man away, and tell Ryouma that it's a nice thought, but not a terribly feasible one. 

 

Easier said than done, apparently, because against logical thought, Takatora switches his hold to grab Ryouma's wrist and simply pull him around the table to his lap. The ease with which he can do that is exhilarating, especially when Ryouma's right--there _isn't_ anyone that can tell him not to do this, except his own damned brain that really could shut up at any time. "I don't need your opinions on it anymore then, either," he mutters, and grasps Ryouma's chin firmly to drag him down into a kiss.

 

Ryouma is pretty sure he skipped a level somewhere. 

 

Not that he’s complaining, no, this is _perfect_ , but it isn’t exactly something he’d been anticipating at the end of that last sentence. He’d expected to maybe see Takatora waver a little, then walk away, then do the same dance again over the course of several nights and the next year or two.

 

Yeah, this is better.

 

Takatora could use some kissing lessons. Ryouma decides to give him the first one here and now, nibbling and sucking and drawing Takatora’s tongue into his mouth a little at a time, flicks and swipes instead of thrusts, enough to taste without being overwhelming. No matter what he has to do, this is _not_ going to be boring and uncomfortable. Someone like Takatora deserves better. 

 

Ryouma shifts in his lap, twisting so he can better slide his hands down Takatora’s neck to his chest, splayed to brace himself on the firm smooth muscle there. He sucks in a breath that smells like expensive cologne and chocolate cake, and dives back in for another addictive kiss. Yeah, opinions are for suckers.

 

Women don't kiss like this. Takatora is sure that most men don't, either, but this is Sengoku Ryouma and he always _did_ used to brag about his skills in that particular area.

 

For good reason.

 

Takatora's breath leaves him in a rush, and it takes effort to swallow back the heady groan that wells up in his throat. It's rude, probably, for his hands to drag down Ryouma's back and immediately curl around his ass, but it helps keep Ryouma right where he belongs, straddling Takatora's thighs and kissing him like he can't get enough. 

 

Also, it just happens to fit perfectly in his hands, and Takatora would be the worst, most pathetic liar to not admit that he's stared at the curve of it in those tight jeans for the past year and a half. 

 

More importantly--that _mouth,_ hot and wet against his own, with lips that shouldn't be allowed to be that soft. Even Ryouma's teeth feel good, and having his own lower lip caught between them makes Takatora shiver and grab harder. 

 

Again, Takatora is skipping levels left and right, but Ryouma isn’t about to start complaining. Much better than complaining is kissing Takatora as if they’re the first two on the Ark, letting his legs fall apart easily as he grinds back on the other man’s hands, wriggling a little at the feel of his ass being grabbed. _Yeah, okay!_

 

If Takatora’s going to skip steps, he will too. One of his hands slides up to thread through that thick mop of hair, tilting Takatora’s head back for an even deeper kiss. The other hand trails down to cup the growing (wow, growing _fast_ ) bulge at the front of his pants, slowly kneading it with his fingers. “I want you,” he murmurs, almost unintelligible against Takatora’s mouth. He’ll get the idea.

 

Takatora leans away just long enough to suck in a real, full breath, but even that feels unsteady and not _enough_ in his lungs. Even through his slacks, Ryouma's hand is enough to make his eyes roll back, and he's not sure when he started agreeing to all of this so effortlessly, but why the hell not. "Fine," he breathes out, voice ragged around the edges, his hands maybe too rough when they give Ryouma's ass another, firm squeeze. "Take what you want, then." 

 

Giving Ryouma free rein is _never_ a boring thing, and if this isn't the most unscheduled thing he's ever done in his life, Takatora doesn't know what is. 

 

It’s tempting to just pull back and drop to his knees. It’s what he’s wanted for a long time, his mouth around Takatora’s cock, feeling the heavy taste of it on his tongue and hearing that groan. He’s going to, he swears…

 

Or, better could be lurching forward, fingers working fast to slide into Takatora’s pants and pull out his cock. A second later, he pulls his own free, and grabs Takatora’s hand, bringing it to both of them as he grinds slowly forward. “I’ll suck you off later,” he promises breathlessly, eyes shining, hair in his face. “Can’t stop kissing you right now, just—”

 

Long fingers lace around both of them, and he urges Takatora to do the same, pumping slowly as hard cock slides against hard cock, more sticky and slick by the second.

 

Takatora tries to think of a time where he's been this hard, this _eager_ , and simply can't. 

 

His breath is gone from his lungs, and he doesn't even need that promise for his cock to drip even more over their fingers. This, shockingly, is enough, and he squeezes his hand around both of them with a groan. Slick and hot and enough to make him mind-numbingly ache--that's what this is, and that's why he can't help but reach up his other hand and fist it into Ryouma's hair, hauling him down for another kiss. Maybe it isn't as practiced, but god, who cares when he can _taste_ Ryouma like this.

 

Ryouma pitches forward, sucking in a high-pitched breath. _He’s_ not supposed to be the one overwhelmed, _he’s_ supposed to know what he’s doing. That knowledge doesn’t help him when Takatora’s strong hand curls around his cock, squeezing and stroking like he’s determined to get them off, and his legs are straddling another long pair, rocking back and forth with every urgent thrust against each other. 

 

 _The things I would let this man do to me_ , he thinks frantically, letting himself be dragged down for a hot, searing kiss that steals what’s left of his breath. _The things I’m going to beg him to do to me._

 

 _Fuck me_ is first and foremost on his lips, but even that is strangled against Takatora’s shockingly soft mouth.

 

Feeling Ryouma fuck up into his hand like that, feeling the way he wriggles and arches and breathes out all of those noises is far more obscene than Takatora _ever_ imagined it being.

 

He never thought he, of all people, would be affected by something like that. Right now is proving that otherwise quite soundly, and god, the feel of those full, soft lips against his own makes him shudder. The pad of his thumb drags over the head of both their cocks, and Takatora lurches, biting at Ryouma's lower lip, sucking it into his mouth with a ragged, breathless noise.

 

This marks the first time in a long time that Ryouma has had sex without feeling like he has to _perform_. He’s just feeling now, touching and grabbing and tasting, rutting and wriggling and _taking_ , and it feels better than even he remembers sex feeling. This, this is what it should be.

 

He looks down, and that’s a mistake. Takatora is so lovely, so _Takatora_ , eyes shut in shuddering bliss just from a handjob and some frot, and that’s more than Ryouma can handle. His hips jerk up, and it’s with a helpless, wordless shout that he comes, pulsing hot and thick all over them at the brush of that thumb over the head of his cock. The stars he sees are just a nice bonus, he thinks hazily.

 

Letting his eyes snap open just in time to see the face Ryouma makes when he orgasms is worth it. 

 

 _That's_ going to be an image that's seared into his brain, and it certainly is now, when Takatora can feel Ryouma's cock pulse within his grasp, can hear every ragged breath and every lingering little noise that he makes. It's too much, and with a grunt, Takatora hauls him closer, keeps a hand wrapped up tight into Ryouma's hair to hold him still so he can bury his face into the other man's neck, muffling the broken, hoarse groan that escapes when he spills with a long, hard shudder.

 

It feels rather like his spine has been dissolved, and surprisingly, that's nice. Takatora sags backward, feeling even his thighs shake and his knees warn him that they'll buckle if he rises any time soon, and god, that's unexpected on every level. 

 

Ryouma’s brain is a little much, sometimes. It whirls around without him always intending it, making connections and swinging wildly between topics without his approval.

 

But now, just for a little while, the whizzing gears and spinning wheels are silent. Ryouma pets Takatora’s hair gently, methodically. That probably should be sweet, but he ruins it a little when he brings up his hand, messy and wet, and drags his tongue over it. So help him, maybe he has something of an oral fixation.

 

Takatora wishes that the sight wasn't quite so mesmerizing. "Ryouma," he groans without thinking when his cock gives a far too eager twitch, and he reaches up a hand to grab (with some degree of coordination, thank you) at Ryouma's wrist. "Have mercy. I'm demanding a truce for at least a few minutes."

 

Ryouma sighs out a breath, ignoring that plea to try and get at his hand again. “Who said it’s for your benefit?” he asks breathlessly, eyes dancing. “Fuck, Takatora, you taste so good.” The taste is heady and obscene on his tongue, even the smell deliciously filthy.

 

So much for that. Takatora shuts his eyes with a slow, albeit unsteady inhale, and releases Ryouma's hand shortly after. "I am _very_ sure that you're wrong." 

 

“Maybe that’s mine then,” Ryouma says unapologetically. “I eat a lot of fruit.” Privately, he knows the taste of his own, and is dead certain that Takatora’s tastes better than his own ever could, though that _is_ a tall order. 

 

He leans back slightly, wiping his hand on his lab coat when he’s quite finished, then looping his hands around Takatora’s neck. “All sex is uncomfortable and boring. True or false?”

 

"…I knew you weren't going to let that one go," is the mutter underneath his breath, but Takatora can't quite stop himself from winding one arm around that lean waist. He's fairly certain that he's stupid for thinking that Ryouma fits nicely in his lap--that Ryouma fits nicely against _him_ in general. "But I'll allow it. False."

 

“Yay!”

 

Ryouma grins, leaning comfortably back against Takatora’s arm. Yes, that does fit nicely around his waist. What the hell, he can allow the sappiness for the day, what with all the breakthroughs. “You wanna do it again? I really will suck you off. Or anything else you wanna do.” He licks his lips. “You’ve got to have a few fantasies you’ve been saving up for when you met someone who wasn’t boring and uncomfortable.”

 

"I…don't. At least, not particularly." Takatora is fairly certain that sex falls into the category of 'that sure is something that people do and for some reason enjoy' and that's about it--well. Until right now. Apparently, it's a thing that he does and enjoys. Strange. It also sounds time consuming, which might be stressful in the future. Right, breathe deep, don't think about time constraints. "Are you so eager all the time?" Dumb question.

 

Ryouma shrugs. “I like sex, if that’s what you’re asking. Not like Yggdrasil hasn’t wiped out almost every negative consequence of it, too, so what’s the harm?” He leans forward enough to rest his forehead against Takatora’s. “I’m starting to think I like it with you the most, Takatora.”

 

"…You have literally done it once with me," Takatora deadpans, or at least, he _tries_ to keep his voice sounding unaffected. That's easier said than done, when Ryouma is so close again and his breath is hot against his quickly heating skin. 

 

“Yeah. Good once, though.”

 

"Well…good." His ego doesn't mind hearing that. 

 

“You didn’t answer my question.” Ryouma lets his hands trail down Takatora’s neck, down to his chest again. Yes, proper melons, good. “I asked if you wanted to do it again and you called me eager. You’re avoiding again.”

 

If he were a woman, he's fairly certain this would be like having his breasts fondled. How…shockingly unsurprising, from Ryouma. "I think," Takatora archly says, even as his hands make their way down to Ryouma's ass on their own accord, "that you are ambitious. Are you not saving anything for your other fifteen million boyfriends or girlfriends?" 

 

“Why should I?” Ryouma asks, bemused at the question. “Don’t be dumb, I don’t have time to date.” Not that he would if he could, he thinks. People are fascinating, but only when he doesn’t owe them shit. “God, I haven’t been out with someone in…”

 

No. No, that _can’t_ be right.

 

There’s a look of almost comical horror on his face when he tallies up the days--weeks--months? _Surely_ not _months_ —

 

He thunks his face down into Takatora’s shoulder. “Don’t look at me. This is embarrassing.”

 

Is this the time to be sympathetic? Takatora gives Ryouma's back a vaguely bemused pat. "Then you understand where _I_ am coming from when I talk about not having time for things like this." 

 

“But it’s cute when you’re all stiff and virginal,” Ryouma mutters. “With me it’s just sad. Ugh.” He dips his head into the open V of Takatora’s shirt, unbuttoning a few more buttons mindlessly and sniffing, then licking over the skin. “Mm. I do get where you’re coming from. This can be like…” He pulls back, thinking. “Whenever we feel like it? And we’re both free.” He’d like to say it would be more often, but knows how he gets when there’s something _interesting_ happening in his lab. 

 

Plus, they _are_ saving humanity. It rates some small consideration.

 

"That sounds…fine." Low pressure, if nothing else, and _that's_ a relief more than anything. Takatora idly grabs a handful of Ryouma's hair and tugs, feeling the need to make one point in particular. "Oi. I _did_ tell you that I'm not a virgin, though." 

 

Ryouma gives him a slow, unapologetic wiggle. “Oh?” he asks, that one word saying volumes. “Why don’t you show the good professor what you know then, Takatora?” Yes, this is the perfect use of a graduate degree.

 

_Don't let him rile you up. That's what he wants, don't let him win--_

 

It's too late, though, and honestly, are either of them losing here? 

 

"You," Takatora mutters, sliding his hand down to Ryouma's shoulder and applying firm, steady pressure to get him out of his lap and to the floor, "need to just be quiet."  

 

Ryouma’s whole face lights up. He quite eagerly slides down to the floor, grabbing for Takatora’s opened jacket to pull him down on top. “Maybe,” he suggests, “you should find a way to shut me up. I’m pretty sure I’d enjoy that.”

 

There are certainly… _ideas._

 

This is definitely what Ryouma means by fantasies, and this is definitely fantasy fuel that Takatora wasn't entirely aware of. Kneeling with his knees on either side of Ryouma's chest, his quickly hardening cock in one hand and a fistful of that sleek black hair in the other--Takatora is suddenly and starkly aware that he's _thought_ about this before. _Damn it._  

 

"You _did_ seem to like the idea well enough before," Takatora lowly rasps, lurching forward enough to let the head of his cock drag over those lips. They're bruised now from all the kissing, and that makes his cock throb, a droplet of precome smearing over them. 

 

Ryouma falters on a witty comeback for the first time in a long time. Better is laying back and parting his lips, letting Takatora feed him cock one thick inch at a time. The taste drags across his tongue, intoxicating and heavy, and his eyes flutter closed in pleasure. This is something he does _well_ , used to do _often_ , something he’d been rather proud of his skill in almost as much as kissing. 

 

He works his mouth and relaxes his throat, and has to whimper anyway when the thought occasionally strikes him that he has _Takatora’s_ _cock_ between his lips.

 

Watching how turned on _Ryouma_ is isn't good for his health, Takatora desperately decides.

 

His gaze flicks briefly to the ceiling, his next breath drawn in slow and steady through his nose, and even that isn't enough to calm the heat that twists in his belly or the way his cock drips over Ryouma's tongue. It's all hot and slick and Ryouma is so obviously hungry for it that Takatora almost can't breathe. It was bad enough kissing that mouth--seeing it wrapped around his cock is _far_ too much. 

 

His cock just slides in so easily that Takatora groans when it bumps against the back of Ryouma's throat, and both of his hands wrap up into the other man's hair when he lurches forward, letting his hips roll forward, long and powerful. The _noises_ that Ryouma makes are even worse, because they're muffled and whiny and that's _good_. "Small wonder you wanted to take it like this--you just wanted to show off," he rasps.

 

Briefly, Ryouma thinks of all the ways they’re going to do this. He’s going to suck Takatora off on his knees under his desk, on his back with his head lolling off the bed, in his silk sheets and on the linoleum floor and in Helheim fucking Forest if he wants, because this is the most fun he’s ever had sucking cock and that’s saying something.

 

Ryouma’s hands come up to dig into Takatora’s thighs, sliding around to pull him in closer, deeper, squeezing that perfect ass and forcing more into his mouth even as he swallows around it. It slips down his throat with the ease of long practice--Takatora isn’t _wrong_ about him enjoying putting on a show. Takatora is also strong, and sure in his movements, and everything about that makes Ryouma’s brain shut completely down. 

 

He feels reduced, feels like nothing but a warm wet hole, and he knows without touching himself that he’s hard as a rock. At this angle, saliva and precome mix and drip down his cheeks every time Takatora drives into his mouth, and Ryouma groans through his nose, straining up greedily for more.

 

Ryouma is a _mess_ , and nothing has ever turned Takatora on more.

 

 _All_ of his cock is down that perfect throat, and when Takatora glances down to watch, it's a mistake. Watching Ryouma's throat work, the way his cheeks are ruddy and sticky and the way he still acts like he wants more-- _damn it_. There's not one thing that's fair about that, and it makes Takatora's brain short out with a ragged gasp torn from his lungs. 

 

Thank god he's not done yet. Thank _god_ he gets to fuck that perfect mouth for longer, his hands not exactly kind when they dig in close to Ryouma's scalp and hold his head still and just make him _take_ for a few minutes. One thrust lingers deep down Ryouma's throat for a moment, enough to force out a few messy, strained noises even from such an _expert_ , and Takatora's eyes cross a little. 

 

 _I am going to_ make _time to fuck you like this_ , Takatora dimly thinks, and that's the last coherent though he manages to have before the head of his cock drags over that hot, wet tongue one last time, and he's _gone_ , spilling with a groan that's more of a strangled growl than anything, and there's still more than enough to see it drip past Ryouma's lips.

 

Ryouma’s not sure he’s ever been so _hungry_ in his life. 

 

He swallows, licks, sucks, swallows, and still there’s more, and still he _wants_ more. His hands cling desperately as that thick cock thrusts into his throat, making him work for every drop.

 

He looks a mess by the time Takatora pulls out, and Ryouma loves even that. His hair has come free of its ponytail at some point, white and black mixing together spilled out around his head. Ryouma pants for breath, licking his lips and groaning at the taste, at the bruised, triumphant feeling. 

 

There’s little he wants more right now than to sort of cheer for himself. Yes, this has been an _excellent_ success. “Takatora,” he breathes, chest heaving as he lays back on the ground, “I’m gonna want that...more often.”

 

"Whenever you want," is the sort of hazy allowance that Takatora can't even think to regret at the current moment. He wobbles as he leans back, calf and thigh muscles protesting on every single level, and fuck, it's good. He can't think of a time that he felt this good, and cheerfully diving into Helheim to his death actually sounds acceptable to end on a high note. 

 

One hand reaches over, thumbing sweat-soaked, sticky hair out of Ryouma's face, and Takatora heaves a hitching, ragged breath. "You look…" _Amazing. Like some debauched god. Like you could probably do that all over again and be happier still, what the hell._  

 

“Like a delightful mess, I’m sure.” Ryouma could sound much less pleased about it. He doesn’t bother wiping up his face, propping himself up on his elbows to look up at Takatora. His gaze softens slightly, and it isn’t his usual razor’s edge smile that he gives. “Maybe I’ll make you a mess next time, hmm?” That idea _does_ appeal, he has to admit. He can think of a lot of ideas that appeal, to be honest.

 

That makes Takatora's pulse pound a little faster. _Stop it_ he firmly orders his hormones, which _apparently_ are still very active in what he feels like is his ripe old age. "…I won't be anywhere as good as you," he wryly points out, catching Ryouma's chin between surprisingly gentle fingers and tugging out a handkerchief from his jacket to wipe his face clean. "You wear the look better as well, I'm sure." 

 

“I do pull off ‘slut’ pretty well,” Ryouma agrees. Still, he’s rather fond of the way Takatora cleans him gently, and has to fight the urge to purr under the ministrations. “Next time you’ll have to get me naked and get between my legs.”

 

"I'm going to knock you out if you don't stop talking about sex." Takatora finishes his self-appointed task and sits back onto the other man's thighs, adding gruffly underneath his breath: " _That's_ not going to happen on your laboratory floor."

 

Ryouma bats his eyelashes, now thankfully clean. What an attentive sex partner Takatora has turned out to be. “Can we do that in your bed? At some point? I could say something about wanting to get the data on your bed but really I just bet it’d be nice and squishy.” Also, Takatora will never find Ryouma’s apartment. No one ever will.

 

"I'm sure you would find it very comfortable." Trusting his legs a bit more now, Takatora slowly rises as he tucks himself back into his pants. "If you accomplish all that you said you would this weekend," he archly says, "I'll consider it." 

 

“I am going to accomplish more than your wildest dreams,” Ryouma promises dreamily, and makes no effort to rise. “More than once.” 

 

Yes, he definitely has plans for this weekend, and _none_ of them are uncomfortable and boring.

 


	3. Chapter 3

All right, it’s four in the morning. Sengoku Ryouma acknowledges, in a vague sort of way, that most people don’t like getting visitors at that hour, especially not to a house that’s supposed to be “impenetrable,” as far as that goes. Those people probably don’t have the _good news_ that he does.

 

Security systems, Ryouma concludes happily as he waltzes by them with a few strokes of any keyboard, are hilarious. He notices the luxury of the Kureshima mansion with one tiny part of his brain, the part that collects data even when the rest of him is more than focused on what he’s just accomplished. 

 

He stops short on the third floor. In his calculations, he hadn’t expected to see someone _coming out of Takatora’s room._

 

A second later, he recognizes the kid. Yes, Kureshima Mitsuzane, someone he’s heard of, but given no thought, designated as _child, currently unimportant_. The little gleam in the boy’s eyes, however, is something he hadn’t been expecting to see in a kid his age. “You must be looking for my brother,” the boy says frankly, giving him a polite bow as if it isn’t the middle of the night, and as if he isn’t wearing rumpled pajamas. “Or you’re some kind of a criminal.”

 

 _If I were, you’d be dead._ Instead, Ryouma pats the boy on the head, walking past him. “Pretty sure everyone is some kind of criminal. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

 

“Shouldn’t you be in your own house?”

 

Ryouma grins. “Fair enough.” If he had an apartment. Takatora has certainly never managed to find it. 

 

He ducks into the bedroom, avoiding any further conversation with the kid. Takatora is asleep in the bed, and Ryouma pauses for a moment, watching. He’d expected, for some reason, that Takatora slept like a board, stiff and still on his back. Delightfully, that doesn’t seem to be the case. He’s half-sprawled, one leg kicked out, face smooshed into his arm. 

 

The empty spot in bed next to him, Ryouma notes, bears an indent, as if someone were recently sleeping there. Huh. 

 

Ignoring that for the moment, Ryouma leans over to nudge the sleeping man in the shoulder. “Hey. Takatora. Takatora, hey, wake up.”

 

Sleep is a very important thing that Takatora rarely gets enough of, and considering this is his _one chance per day_ , he--with a very sleep-muddled mind--asserts that he's justified in being cranky right now. 

 

" _What._ " It's a muffled sort of growl, especially when he doesn't even lift his head at first. Even still bleary with sleep, his mind registers _it's not Mitsuzane_ , so that allows his tone to be less than kind. Slowly, he shakes his hair out of his face, pushing himself up onto an elbow to glare blearily through his bangs at who appears to be Ryouma. But _why_. "If Yggdrasill didn't simultaneously combust, then there is no other reason for you to be here." At four in the morning. _In his house._

 

“I wouldn’t be here for something dumb like that,” Ryouma says, tense and excited. He sits unceremoniously on the bed, leaning down so they’re less than a foot away from each other. “I did it. Takatora, the belts, I made them work with the Chromium base instead of the Rhodium.” 

 

Nothing big, that discovery. Just the fact that this alloy costs about a _billionth_ what the other does. Just the fact that instead of sending the project back to the drawing board, something they’ve both known was coming, it can _move forward_ in a cost-effective, mass-production kind of way.

 

Just the fact that they can actually _save the world._

 

There’s a reason Ryouma hasn’t slept for five days.

 

Takatora might be still somewhat asleep, but that doesn't last for long. There generally seems to be a switch in his mind that flips on when Ryouma declares _I did it_ , because if that doesn't proclaim good news…nothing does. 

 

This isn't just good news. This is news that literally saves _the world_ , not just those of Yggdrasill and their families (and even that seemed touch and go before). The numbers whir through Takatora's head, and about twenty different sources of tension unclench all at once. This is _workable, finally,_ for _once_. 

 

There's no point in asking _how sure are you_ , like he would have to with every other researcher he's ever hired, because Ryouma is always sure. Thank whatever gods there are, but he's _sure_ , and Takatora exhales a long sigh of relief, grabs the front of the other man's shirt, and hauls him down to kiss him soundly. "You're brilliant." There's probably no better praise for this man.

 

Ryouma starts to grin.

 

Then the stress, the weight, the sleeplessness, and the tension all collect, and are collectively hit by the truck that is Takatora’s approval and soft bed.

 

Not two seconds later, his eyes shut and he lets out a soft whuffling noise, dead asleep on top of Takatora.

 

There are worse reactions. 

 

Actually, this is better than most. Ryouma is dead weight, it's still four in the morning, and…isn't it supposed to be Sunday? Even with such good news, rolling back over to sleep for a few more hours isn't unheard of, _especially_ when he can wake up to a world that can be saved--infinitely less stressful, that.

 

"Fine," Takatora breathes to himself, hauls Ryouma further into the bed, and underneath the blankets in the process. Treating themselves to a _proper_ sleep sounds far too appealing right then, especially when Ryouma's asleep _on_ him.

 

Ryouma has no idea how long he sleeps. It’s dark when he wakes, though he’s not sure whether the phrase is “still dark” or “dark again.” Either way, he’s earned it, and he feels rested as hell, stretching out and hearing nine or ten pops and cracks along his spine. There’s also a warm body in bed with him, and a sniff of floofy hair tells him it’s Takatora. 

 

Well. There’s no harm in wallowing in his accomplishments a little longer, he thinks, burying his face in Takatora’s chest. Yes, perfect.

 

Takatora feels rather like he's just clawed his way out of his own grave. 

 

Feeling Ryouma shift against him makes him slowly, sluggishly wake, and Takatora stretches with a rumbling groan, slinging an arm over Ryouma's waist. Better than asking what _time_ it is would be asking what _year_ it is. When was the last time he slept like that? 

 

A half-hearted stare at the clock on the wall finally puts the pieces together. "Good evening." 

 

“Mph. Is it?” Ryouma croaks. Ah. When was the last time he’d had something to drink? Not sure. Honestly, he rarely remembers eating or drinking. Sometimes his assistants (under Takatora’s instructions, no doubt) put things into his hands, and he hasn’t died yet.

 

"Mmhm." It takes effort to roll onto his back, even more effort to think about sitting up. Takatora manages, untangling Ryouma long enough to reach for the pitcher of water at his bedside and pour him a glass. "Drink, before you end up even more dehydrated." It's too late in the day for coffee. Damn. He's going to need a serious restart tomorrow.

 

Ryouma takes a few swigs, managing to spill water all over himself. Whatever, he’s saving the world, Takatora can deal if he does it damp. At least most of it goes in his mouth, which feels startlingly good. “Yeah. Mm, thanks.” He rolls a little, butting his head into Takatora’s shoulder. “So, afterwards, do you think we should let them all call us gods? Or just the geniuses who saved the planet? Personally I’m content with being a genius, but you’d make a nice god.”

 

"Don't be ridiculous." Takatora removes the glass from Ryouma's hold, deciding to wait until he's a bit more coordinated to give him more. "Assuming all goes according to plan, everyone will assume this is just a natural progression of society." God, that does feel like another heavy weight off of his shoulders. "Also, you already are a genius."

 

Yes, good. Ryouma is well aware how smart he is, but hearing it (from Takatora) never hurts. “I’m gonna have a real prototype for you to try soon,” he promises, flopping down to the bed. “With the armor and the gadgets and everything. I know, it should be a decade before we need them, but I do like being ahead of schedule.”

 

Ryouma is wallowing in his bed. That flips the _damn it, he's cute_ switch, which is always troublesome. Takatora bites back a sigh. "I do like it when you're ahead of schedule. The sooner, the better. There could always be issues that we haven't considered yet." 

 

“Mmph.” Ryouma rubs his face against a startlingly soft pillow. “How the _hell_ do you ever get out of this bed?” he demands, face smooshed. “I just don’t think I ever would. Never give me one of these. I’ll never leave it.”

 

"Three alarms." He's not joking. "Which I slept through after you showed up, apparently. You're welcome to stay in it tonight, but you _will_ be going to work tomorrow morning." 

 

Ryouma thrashes slowly to the side, rubbing his face against Takatora’s chest now. Yes, better even than the pillow. “You might have to carry me in. Ah, I won’t be interrupting, will I? I know three’s a crowd.”

 

Settling back down to let Ryouma properly rub his face into his chest is probably one of the stranger things Takatora has done lately, but…well. He supposes Ryouma deserves it for at least a few minutes. "I literally have no idea what you're talking about." 

 

“Cute,” Ryouma murmurs, turning his head and nipping at the smooth skin there. Hmm, it could taste _more_ like melon. “How often does your brother sleep in here? Or was that a one-time thing?”

 

"Ah, that." Takatora gives the other man's already thoroughly undone ponytail a tug, because having teeth on his skin and carrying on a conversation are very mutually exclusive. "Mitsuzane is still rather insecure at times, and sometimes sleeps better in here with me. He'll grow out of that, I'm sure." 

 

A disbelieving _he’s like thirteen_ is on Ryouma’s tongue, but he swallows it. Not his business if the little creep likes playing with the big boys, as long as he’s prepared for all of the game. Ryouma, for his part, is ready to win the game with teeth and claws and fruit-flavored robots, and rather hopes they’ll all be necessary. “Sure, sure. But if I’m going to stay in your bed,” he warns, throwing a leg over Takatora’s hips, “you’re going to enjoy it.”

 

Enjoyment as a threat. Sounds about right, with Ryouma. Takatora's expression shifts wry, and he lazily rolls onto his back, hauling Ryouma with him. "I expected nothing less, I'll be honest." There are a dozen things he could be doing, even this late in the day, but…no, this day is marked for celebration. Relaxation, more than anything. They deserve it, he firmly reminds himself, and it isn't as if Ryouma is going to let him do anything else.

 

Ryouma lights up at that, and climbs fully on top of Takatora, straddling him. “Silk pajamas,” he notes, unbuttoning each button in turn. “Very nice. Very you. The only thing that would be more you is a hairshirt.” 

 

He fastens his mouth over one dark nipple, swirling his tongue over it and nibbling slightly. Takatora has the _best_ chest. He’s never really had the time to enjoy the man the way he’s always wanted to, not when most of their very few meetings have been in his lab or a hurried blowjob under the desk.

 

Well, that's…nicer than it should be. 

 

It's bad enough when Ryouma shoves his face into his chest in varying degrees of public, or when he tries to sneak in a poke or a pinch in broad daylight. Having his mouth actually on _skin_ , with his teeth on a nipple--that makes Takatora's breath snag in his lungs, and it's practically reflex that buries a hand into Ryouma's hair. "And you, of course," he exhales, "are _still_ in those jeans of yours." They must be painted on.

 

Ryouma grins, sucking hard before switching to the other, leaving them hard and wet, just the way he likes them. “Take them off me,” he orders breathlessly, more to see whether Takatora will take an order from him than because he feels like being bad. If so….yeah, they can have a _lot_ of fun in a bed like this.

 

Judging by how his pulse jumps at the idea, Takatora's just going to assume that he's had that thought in the back of his mind for awhile now. Fine, whatever. 

 

It's better not to think too much when he's with Ryouma. His own reactions and thoughts never line up the way that the should, anyway, and that's probably better, especially when he's already reaching for the front of those jeans before Ryouma even finishes his sentence, unbuttoning them as he lurches up to kiss him hard. 

 

Very few things can get Ryouma as hard as Takatora does. Usually that’s obnoxious in the lab (the pants are so tight that they make _certain things_ kind of inconvenient), but right now, it’s perfect. He leaves dark sucking bite marks on Takatora’s chest, kicking his pants off when they get down far enough (with the skill of long practice). Takatora’s are easy enough, silk drawstring pajama pants that just take the work of a second to undo.

 

Then he flips Takatora over onto his belly, bending over him and nibbling at his earlobe. One hand reaches around, cupping and stroking Takatora’s cock slowly, fondling him for the joy of it more than anything else. “I hope,” he breathes into Takatora’s ear, “you’re not going to mind losing that stick up your ass.”

 

When will he _ever_ learn to stop expecting certain things from Ryouma?

 

"Ryouma--" It's not as wary as Takatora would like it to sound, not when his cock swells within Ryouma's hand, already achingly hard, a slick droplet at the tip. All implications considered, he feels as though his body is overreacting. Takatora exhales a hard breath, shoving himself up onto his elbows, and twisting back enough that he can feel the other man's breath on his ear, his teeth scraping against the edge of it all the more. " _This_ is what you want?" 

 

Ryouma considers for a moment. Then, he deliberately grinds his cock against Takatora’s ass, feeling it clench and tense against him. “Yeah. Mm, yeah, I really do.”

 

He laughs, rubbing his palm over the head of Takatora’s cock. His other hand slides up to toy with a wet nipple, slowly pinching and tugging on it. “If I can get it in. You feel really tight.” Damn, it’s been a long time since he’s even _thought_ about doing this with someone, and the idea of hearing Takatora groan with a dick up his ass…

 

Yep, better think of something else first, or he won’t even be able to get it in.

 

Any other time, and Takatora is _sure_ he could think of half a dozen arguments. He has a couple that he considers even still, mostly along the lines of protesting that Ryouma would look _so good_ riding him, though--

 

But apparently, his nipples are attached to his cock, and every pinch and tug makes it jump, makes him shudder, and fine, _sure_. Ryouma hasn't been wrong yet when it comes to anything involving sex, and in that, Takatora supposes yielding to expertise is a wise decision. 

 

"…Fine," he manages to gasp out, his eyes fluttering shut at the long, hard slide of Ryouma's cock against him. His head bows, shoulders bunching with a shiver of tension, and grabbing onto the solidness of the headboard is a good way to ground himself right then. "Then you better make it good." 

 

Ryouma wants to demand, _When have I not made it good?_

 

Whatever, this is a big step for Takatora, probably. Ryouma softens the blow to his ego--so very _Japanese_ , at the end of the day--and starts nibbling again, letting his hair spill down to brush over Takatora’s broad shoulders. 

 

He rubs his cock over the cleft of Takatora’s ass, hissing at the contact before pulling himself back, giving the base of his cock a hard squeeze. “Tell me you have some condoms,” he says, “and I swear I’ll make you beg for it.”

 

 _I don't beg for anything_ is on the tip of Takatora's tongue, but he bites it back in favor of something resembling a growl instead as he rakes his hair back from his face. Ryouma can take the hint. "Nightstand drawer, if anywhere." All from the last time (ages ago) there was a woman in his bed, and god, that's not something he wants to think about right now. His cock is too hard for any of this to be fair, and he blames Ryouma for that entirely.

 

Ryouma reaches a long arm over to the nightstand, digging around and grabbing one. He raises an eyebrow at the sight of the wrapper, one with a popular character that had gone out of style a few years earlier. “These things _do_ have an expiration date, you know,” he remarks dryly, tearing open the package with his teeth. Whatever, Takatora’s not going to get pregnant--and if he does, Yggdrasil has a pill for that. 

 

Maybe another day he’ll get Takatora to roll it on him. That would be nice. For now, he reaches into the nightstand again, hoping...nope, lottery empty, no lube in there. No wonder he’d thought sex with women was uncomfortable and boring. “Spread your legs, I’m gonna try to loosen you up.”

 

"Do you know when the last time I had sex was?" Takatora moodily tosses back, and no, he does _not_ count blow jobs and Ryouma climbing into his lap and grabbing his dick. He doesn't need Ryouma's commentary right now, but that's too much to ask for, and he settles for just cooperating for the time being, settling his knees further apart with a slow exhale of breath. 

 

“If you had expired milk in your fridge I wouldn’t ask when the last time you had cereal was,” Ryouma grumbles. Far better than that, however, is sucking on one of his fingers, getting it as slick as he can before rubbing it over Takatora’s hole…

 

Then stopping.

 

He sighs, and pushes his hair back with his other hand. “I can’t do this, I’m going to tear you up,” he complains. “Don’t you have servants around that can go get us some lube or something?” At this rate, it’s going to be another blowjob, not that that would be _too_ bad, but he has got his sights set on this tonight.

 

The thought makes Takatora want to jump out of a window. "I am literally never going to ask them to do that." An exasperated sigh, and he lets his head thunk forward against a stack of pillows. "You could rummage through the bathroom, if you're dead set on this." 

 

It’s with a groan of utmost inconvenience that Ryouma rolls off, walking pantsless and entirely unashamed to the bathroom. It’s... _Spartan_ , he supposes, with mild distaste. Ah, well, he’s no kind of scientist if he can’t find something suitable in here. 

 

A muffled shout of “Baby oil, _yes!_ ” comes from the bathroom just before Ryouma bounds out, undoing his shirt with one hand as he climbs back onto the bed. “Spread your legs for me,” he orders, eyes alight. “I want to get in you, Takatora.”

 

It's probably Ryouma's utmost enthusiasm that makes this all such a turn-on. That's really unfortunate, because Ryouma is enthusiastic _most_ of the time. "Fine," is the gruff retort as Takatora readjusts, wriggling a hand underneath himself to give his own cock a slow, firm squeeze when he spreads his legs wider.

 

When Takatora moves--like _that_ \--Ryouma lets out a truly unfortunate noise, gnawing on his own hand a little bit. He’s not sure there’s anything in the world that looks better than Takatora spreading his legs for _this_ , because he wants Ryouma to fuck him, stroking himself off at the same time.

 

 _Get it together,_ he tells himself firmly. He crawls onto the bed, letting a generous dollop of the oil pool in his hand before he starts slicking the other man up, sliding his middle finger in to the first knuckle, then smoothly the rest of the way. It’s a shock, the first time, and any man of science knows that the human body reacts best when it isn’t given a chance to seize up. “Maybe I was wrong,” he says breathlessly, eyes widening at the sight of his finger buried inside the other man, slowly twisting. “Maybe you’re not as tight as all that after all.” He is, of course, and it feels like he’s trying to rip Ryouma’s finger off, but maybe some positive reinforcement will help.

 

God, is it _supposed_ to feel like that?

 

Takatora expects uncomfortable, unpleasant--half a dozen other related adjectives, surely. Maybe it's just the fact that his cock is already so hard and Ryouma is still making all of those eager noises even if he's not the one about to be fucked. Whatever the case, it's not unpleasant as much as it just aches, not uncomfortable as much as it just feels like there's already too much _in him_ , and he knows the tension rippling down his spine can't be helping with that.

 

Maybe it's mostly just the fact that Ryouma is about to _fuck him_ , and that makes a disgusting amount of eager heat pool in his belly. 

 

Choking down a groan is easier said than done, and when Takatora shifts, his hips rolling back on their own accord, his cock jumps in his grasp, dripping over his fingers when he squeezes. Takatora turns his head to the side, letting the hot skin of one cheek press down into a pillow that doesn't feel nearly cool enough anymore. "Stop talking," he rasps, "and just hurry up and do it." 

 

Ryouma slides a hand down Takatora’s back, up the curve of it again, down just to grab his ass when he works in a second finger. “Talk like that,” he whispers against his ear, grinding up slow against the back of one muscular thigh, “is why you thought sex before me was uncomfortable and boring.”

 

Damned if he’s not going to take his time. Takatora’s the biggest tight-ass he’s ever seen, physically and metaphorically. He takes his time, sliding in one finger from each hand and manually stretching, wriggling his fingers apart, making sure there’s no part of him that isn’t slicked-up and ready to go. 

 

It’s not just kissing and sucking cock that he does well, he thinks with a hint of pride, and Takatora’s about to discover that for himself. Takatora is still hard enough to cut glass, apparently, and that thought _does_ please. At least he’s not entirely barking up the wrong tree here. He’s fully confident that he could fuck almost any man, no matter how suited for this they were, and make it good. That doesn’t mean he won’t prefer Takatora splayed out and shivering while he’s stuffed full.

 

Takatora is certain, one of these days, that he's going to teach Ryouma that _listening to what he says_ is a good thing--but dear god, it's not going to be today. 

 

No, in this, Ryouma's probably right--never mind. Definitely right. Even those couple of fingers are too much and make his breath hiccup and sweat trickle down his spine from just the effort of _trying_ to relax. His cock is hard enough from that alone that he just has to stop touching it, and fists his hand into the sheets underneath himself instead, Takatora's next exhale ragged when he dares to arch backward, his voice barely swallowed back when he can feel those fingers inside so _obviously_ and Ryouma's hard cock sliding against his thigh. That's going to be _in him_. The thought of that almost feels like a relief.

 

“That too much already?” 

 

Ryouma’s voice is low, husky and urgent when he works his fingers in and out, feeling Takatora clenching and spasming around them. He’ll loosen up eventually, though Ryouma isn’t sure how much longer he wants to wait. The thought of shoving his cock into that tight little hole is enough to make him clench his teeth, long fingers delving deep.

 

He leans over, leaving a long sucking bite on Takatora’s neck. No one will see it under his suit. He twists and curls his fingers, curving and exploring, until he’s pretty sure he could write a map of that ass in his sleep. “Tell me you want it, and you can have it.” He shifts his hips, cock pressed against the curve of that fantastic ass his fingers are buried inside. “Feel how hard I am for you.”

 

Takatora's mind gives a last, valiant effort at protesting, at making him shut up, but it just plain doesn't happen. It's Ryouma's mouth on his neck, the way his fingers curve inside, the way Ryouma's cock feels dripping against his skin, and Takatora surrenders with a shuddering groan, his head rolling to the side, one hand scrabbling to brace against the headboard to give him something to push back against.

 

"Put it in." Remarkable, that his voice is anything close to steady, but it's still rough around the edges. "Hurry _up_ , Ryouma." 

 

The begging can always come later, Ryouma decides. Right now, this is perfect. It’s also more than he ever thought he’d get, so there’s definitely an element of triumph in it as well.

 

The last condom hadn’t gone so well, but this one is almost worse, since his hands are oily and slippery, making it awfully difficult to rip open the package. He finally manages, sliding the thin latex down over his cock before rubbing the head over Takatora’s hole. “Fuck,” he whispers, head bowed to let his forehead rest between Takatora’s shoulderblades. “This is gonna feel _so_ good.” 

 

For him. Of course, he hopes Takatora has a good time, too.

 

The first slick press is anything but easy with the way Takatora squeezes down, but Ryouma manages with flying colors. It takes a grunt of effort and a hard shove to get in, the pressure so intense that Ryouma gasps for air, stars popping behind his eyes when he manages it. He bites back a blue streak of curses, clinging onto Takatora’s back for dear life once he’s in. “Fuck...fuck, Takatora…”

 

That's… _more._

 

If the fingers felt like too much, this is a dozen times worse. Or better? Takatora isn't sure. He does know that it steals the breath from his lungs, leaves every muscle drawn tighter still and spasming in protest--

 

 _God_ , though, that's sort of satisfying. 

 

Takatora just…slides down, sagging into his elbows, breathing in deep through his nose. He's distantly aware that his cock is still _achingly_ hard, dripping down onto the sheets in a steady stream. Ryouma's cock is _in him_ , buried in so far that it hurts, and Takatora can feel the sweat between his shoulder blades, the tension even in Ryouma's fingers when they grip his sides. Better. The answer is that it feels _better_. "Fuck me," he hears himself rasp out, twisting one arm back, clawing his nails against whatever part of Ryouma he can reach.

 

 _Had a feeling this is what you needed,_ Ryouma thinks with all that’s left of his consciousness. The vast majority of it is taken up with holding Takatora’s hips, grinding up until he’s flush with Takatora’s ass, thrusting in short little bursts that just makes them fit together more tightly still. He barely pulls out each time, fucking into Takatora with desperate little grunting noises, feeling that squeeze at the base of his cock with every shallow thrust.

 

Ryouma’s vision clears enough that he can look down and see, just enough to make sure he’s not the only one having fun. The muscles in his arms and shoulders bunch when he twists Takatora’s face around, and just a glance at the pained ecstasy on his face is enough to fuel a thousand wet dreams. “Knew you’d love this,” he whispers, and slams in deep to make his point.

 

The broken, ragged groan that rips from Takatora's throat is more than proof enough of _that._  

 

Theoretically, there shouldn't be anything about this that he likes. It's noisy and messy and he's going to be a sore, aching mess later, he can tell. Every shivering squeeze around Ryouma's cock proves otherwise, though--because it feels _good_ even with that edge to it, and grinding back into those especially deep thrusts are apparently what _his_ wet dreams are made of. 

 

Takatora's head tips back for air, ragged and caught up in his throat, his teeth sunk into his lower lip when he's sure he's going to get too loud, and he can't help but shove a hand down to his own cock again, rubbing his thumb all over the head of it. 

 

God, Takatora’s going to _kill_ him.

 

There’s the impulse to slap that hand away--to be the only one responsible for Takatora’s pleasure, to force him to come _that way_ , but that can wait for another time when Ryouma has the cognitive processes for it.

 

Now, all he can think is _good, now I don’t have to worry about whether he comes or not._

 

Selfish, but he’s rarely been accused of much else, and never in bed. Ryouma takes what he wants, takes what he _needs_ , drawing his hips back to feel the slow squeeze of Takatora’s tight ass from the base to the tip of his cock before thrusting in hard again, groaning with every long, urgent motion. 

 

The second he feels that pressure ready to explode behind his eyes, Ryouma _bites_ , taking a mouthful of Takatora’s neck and nipping it sharply, tasting salty sweat and expensive lotions and the sharp tang of a spot of blood under it all when he fills the condom in long wet pulses, fucking each thrust up into Takatora’s ass with a groan of total surrender.

 

It's the bite that does him in, and Takatora's going to have to find a way to tell Ryouma to do _more of that_ later. 

 

The hand on his cock is nothing compared to the way Ryouma feels in his ass, stretching him wide, stuffing him full, and some obscene part of his brain wishes that condom wasn't there, leaving him messier and slicker still. Just the thought of that makes his breath stutter and every muscle seize up, and Takatora bites down into the pillow when he spills in long, jerking pulses, his back arched taut, even his toes curled to the point that the muscles in his legs ache. 

 

He's not going to feel normal for awhile. Takatora is sure of that, what with how his vision keeps blurring around the edges and every breath is _effort_. 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Ryouma thinks he sees, just for a second, an eye. Then the door closes, and it’s gone. 

 

_Weird kid._

 

Ryouma slumps down over Takatora’s back, pausing only to pull out and slide off the condom, tying it with one hand before flopping down the rest of the way. “Verdict?” he asks, when the act of breathing doesn’t seem like _such_ a chore.

 

Takatora is fairly certain that he doesn't flop, but rather, slithers down into the mattress. What are bones for, anyway? "Good," he vaguely offers, because saying that it was any less than that would be an obvious, worthless lie.   

 

Ryouma runs a single long fingertip over the back of Takatora’s shoulders. For once, it doesn’t feel like steel, but like an actual man’s muscles, loose and relaxed. That, he thinks, is almost as satisfying as the fact that he’d essentially saved the human race the day before. “Yeah. You too.”

 

And for once, Takatora doesn't jump out of his skin at that touch, but instead, shivers pleasantly before slowly rolling to the side, grabbing for Ryouma after the fact. "I will admit," he rumbles, wrapping his hands up into Ryouma's hair and dragging him down for a kiss, "that you're onto something here." Even sticky and sore, this is still much _better_. 

 

“I usually am.” 

 

Ryouma can’t deny that there’s a little triumphant thought cast towards anyone who would want to make a claim on Takatora. _Beat THAT, motherfuckers._

 

But for now, a slow kiss is far better, and snuggling down into Takatora’s arms for a cuddle.

 


	4. Chapter 4

If there’s one thing Takatora needs, it’s a night off. Ryouma isn’t sure his friend has ever had one, and for a sixteen-year-old who’s just had his birthday, that’s almost criminal.

 

It’s with that in mind that he whips up a couple of fake IDs for the two of them, grabs a spare set of clothes from the laundry room (he’s not sure what clothes Takatora has that could be known as “casual,” but they’re probably wrong), and waits outside the other boy’s dorm for him to get back from class. Honestly, who has a single room? Takatora’s father is probably even richer than Ryouma’s great-aunt, and that’s saying something.

 

He sees the crisply pressed uniform and its inhabitant walking briskly down the hall, and slouches artfully, his own tie long past undone. “You look _way_ too put-together for a Friday night,” he informs the other boy, leaning back against his door. “I’m bored, entertain me.”

 

The look that Takatora settles upon giving him is more tired than anything else. _Honestly_ , after a long week of classes, he's looking forward to sleep--no, rather, he needs it. He's sure that Ryouma would be horrified at the notion of falling asleep before midnight, but Takatora is currently toying with the idea of sleeping before the _sun_ sets. 

 

"Go out with one of your girlfriends," Takatora firmly tells him, resisting the urge to _fix_ that tie of Ryouma's and instead, catches him by the shoulder to urge him away from the door. "I already have plans tonight." 

 

It’s fine--Ryouma has anticipated this. Takatora is almost never any fun, which is something Ryouma is, unfortunately, dealing with. “But I’m a lot more fun than sleep. Don’t lie, I know you’re thinking about sleep. But…” He shrugs, and pulls the IDs out of his pocket, tapping them idly against his thigh. “Inspection is next week, then finals, then you said your _dad_ is coming. Don’t you want to blow off some steam before then?”

 

The key turns into the lock, and it's probably too late to prevent Ryouma from getting inside his room. It usually is. "Don't be ridiculous, I wasn't just going to sleep." _Maybe_ he would have attempted to get a start on next week's assignments if he didn't doze off first. "Are you sure this isn't more about you being worried about your _great-aunt?_ " Takatora crossly shoots back.

 

Sure, he can go the guilt route instead. Ryouma sighs, leaning back against the door as it opens, then slumping down onto the bed. “She’s not too happy with me,” he lies. Sengoku Mieko doesn’t give half a shit about what he does as long as he doesn’t start using “ore.” “And if she pulls me back home, I’m not gonna be able to _see_ you again after finals.” Not time for the big eyes yet. Those he’ll save.

 

Takatora wavers.

 

He hopes that Ryouma can't notice the moment of hesitation. He's gotten better, he's very certain, at hiding those moments of weakness and concern. It's just more difficult when it's one of his friends--one of his _only_ friends, to be entirely correct about it. He turns away, loosening his tie. "…If she does that, you've brought it on yourself, you know. Just because you can pass all of your classes without attending them doesn't mean you should." 

 

“ _Honestly_ , you’re acting like I’m trying to get you to try amphetamines or something.” Ryouma turns over on the bed, kicking his feet into the air and propping his chin up on his hands. "Eh, I probably won’t get kicked out. I just really want to have fun, and I want to do it with you. Is that so bad?” It’s a genuine question. He’s not always entirely sure whether the things he wants are all that terrible, but people seem to act like they are.

 

"No," is Takatora's reluctant answer, but he feels the following question is even more valid: "But why me? I think you can find better company for something like this." _Anything_ that requires going out and socializing, for that matter. The idea is honestly somewhat horrifying.

 

“Because no one needs it more than you do,” Ryouma says frankly. “You know how you try to get me to go to bed earlier and eat more of those green things? I’m doing this for you the same way. That’s what friends do.”

 

Takatora gives him a look that is very obviously uncomprehending. "How in the _world_ can going out with you with a fake ID be good for my health?"

 

“Your _emotional_ health, Takatora!” Ryouma bounces up from the bed, draping a long arm over Takatora’s shoulder to pull him close. Ah, nice shoulders, always very nice. “Do you think your father was always a good boy in school? And he’s still probably doing all right for himself, right?”

 

"…I'm fairly _certain_ he was always well-behaved in school," Takatora says, his brow creasing. More than anything, this sounds stressful. He's not sure how that's supposed to help him emotionally. The problem, of course, is that Ryouma's so enthusiastic about it that trying to tell him 'no' becomes increasingly more difficult as time goes on. "I _really_ don't want to stay out until one in the morning or anything like that." 

 

There we go, there’s his agreement. Ryouma lights up like an Yggdrasil billboard, squeezing Takatora tight. “Yeah! No way, we’ll go to the places that get going early, I’m sure those exist. Here, I brought you some clothes to wear.” He takes off his own jacket and trousers, revealing his casual clothes underneath, all of which are considerably more form-fitting.

 

Takatora doesn't remember agreeing in so many words, but apparently, he's done it again. This _always_ happens. 

 

The other problem is that no matter what he does, he never feels anything less than awkward dressed in anything that doesn't resemble a suit. He's not like Ryouma, who _somehow_ can pour himself into jeans that look painted on. "I still don't understand the point of this. You don't even like getting drunk or anything like that," Takatora frets as he changes, leaving his school uniform neatly folded on the bed. 

 

Ryouma makes a face at that. “Ugh, no. My brain is way too important to use as a battleground for substances. No, but we can go _dancing_ , there are probably a lot of pretty girls and boys and whatever you like there. Fish? Do you maybe like fish?” His Quest to get Takatora a date has floundered over the past three years.

 

"In what way does fish and dancing sound like a good Friday night?" Takatora mutters underneath his breath, genuinely baffled. "And how many times do I have to tell you--I'm far too busy to think about _being_ with anyone. Not everyone has the luxury of dating anything that moves, Ryouma." More specifically, sleeping with anything that moves. _That's_ Ryouma's specialty.

 

“The fish was a joke, Takatora.” Someday, maybe, he won’t have to explain every single joke he makes. What a cute idea. “As for the rest of it, what does luxury have to do with it? Anyone at this school would...well. I’ll save that from your delicate ears.” Ryouma grabs Takatora’s arm, forcibly dragging him down the hallway. “Be quick and quiet,” he warns. “We have ten minutes before the next patrol, and you’re _not_ dressed according to code. Follow me!”

 

Takatora is extremely sure that Ryouma just wants him to get in trouble and be kicked out instead. _What did I ever do to make him hate me so much?_

 

He's not sure what he hates more--the fact that he could get caught and get into a ton of trouble, or the fact that Ryouma thinks he's delicate and inexperienced and…ugh. No, he's not going to fall into that mindset. He doesn't have to impress anyone. His stress levels are already through the roof from this alone. " _What_ part of this is good for me emotionally again?" he desperately whispers, thinking back longingly to his bed and _pillows_. God, he has more than a few of them. 

 

It isn’t easy to get out of the school without detection. Well, it wouldn’t be easy for most people. Ryouma makes a good show of it being difficult, when really he’s had the schedule of everyone and everything important memorized for a couple years now. “Over the fence,” he urges, and shows stronger muscles than the tight clothes would suggest when he heaves the other boy over, following him up. “Oi, Takatora, catch me!” 

 

How could Takatora think this isn’t _fun_?

 

This is literally the worst idea ever, Takatora frantically thinks, running over half a dozen scenarios in which they're going to be caught, in which his father is going to find out, in which he's setting a horrible example for his little brother back home--

 

And then he's landing on his feet with barely any time to dust himself off before he has to catch one Sengoku Ryouma, the cause of all of his stress. 

 

Heavier than he looks, the asshole. He's dense, mostly, even if he's all legs, and Takatora grinds his teeth when he's pretty sure he feels a tense muscle in his back stretch uncomfortably. "How are we supposed to get back _in_ later?" he frets, gingerly setting Ryouma onto his feet. "Our chances of getting caught are going to be even worse then." 

 

Ryouma grins. “Just trust me.” 

 

He’s pretty sure Takatora doesn’t. That, for some reason, has always rankled him. He’s a _good_ friend, and would like to be a _fun_ friend, maybe the only fun thing in Takatora’s life. “You’re only young once,” he says, very seriously, and threads his fingers through Takatora’s, squeezing. With anyone else, he’d have tried to get into his pants a hundred times (and succeeded 99 times). Takatora is...just different. “There’s lots of time for sleep when we’re old.”

 

"That's really not the part that I'm worried about now," Takatora mumbles, briefly chewing on his lower lip. He's sure that his hand must be cold and nervously clammy in Ryouma's grasp, and for good reason. There's nothing good that can come out of this, he's _so_ sure. 

 

…But Ryouma's sure. For some reason. He's nervous as hell, but he _is_ already here, courtesy of the Ryouma-whirlwind. "You're _such_ a problem."

 

Ryouma beams. “I’m already doing my job right, then!” 

 

Beyond that, they’re in the city, running along clean paved streets lit up like it’s some kind of national holiday. It feels good to run (though Ryouma would never tell his P.E. Teacher that, and he does have a note to excuse himself from all physical activity), but that’s probably just because he’s with Takatora.

 

The police force has done a good job of gentrifying and cleaning up the seedier areas of Zawame City. There’s little of the old color and filth left, something Ryouma finds delightful. Equally good is the new club scene, and he murmurs in Takatora’s ear, “Just be confident, act like you’re walking into some important meeting to see your dad,” before flashing his ID and breezing past the bouncer.

 

Takatora is briefly more distracted by the Yggdrasil building that towers above the city, and the absolutely illogical fact of _what if my father is literally watching from it right now_. 

 

Impossible, obviously, but it doesn't make him any less nervous. 

 

He's not sure _where_ Ryouma's confidence in this matter comes, and he definitely feels a dozen shades of guilty when the bouncer barely even _looks_ at his ID. It's the height, probably. Well, fine. That's one less thing he might end up getting caught for, at least. 

 

People and noises and lights aren't his best friends at all, though, and on repeat is the concern that they're going to run into someone that he knows, that knows _him_ , specifically, out of the school system and on a familial basis. Unlikely, maybe, but it _could_ happen. That would just ruin everything. 

 

He also might be clinging to Ryouma's hand, just a little. 

 

This isn’t one of the more intimidating clubs, which is why Ryouma had chosen it. There’s still music, still dancing, still definitely a bar, but there are also sofas and tables and old people, like at least 30. Ryouma doesn’t dare let Takatora sit down, not yet. Once he’s in one of those couches, there will be no getting him out of it. “Pick someone you want to dance with,” he says, leaning over to breathe the words in Takatora’s ear. “I’ll show you how to ask.”

 

"I am _not_ going to do that," Takatora mutters, nothing short of horrified. At least that makes him stop holding onto Ryouma's hand like he's going to die. He can deal with being dragged places, to an extent. He can deal with breaking out of their school and having heart attacks every time he nearly recognizes someone from the corporation, to an extent. He is not, however, going to ask a complete stranger to dance. "And don't you dare ask for me, I'll leave right now."

 

Ryouma pouts, but just a little. He hadn’t really thought it would work. “Fine,” he agrees easily enough, and tugs Takatora out of the flow of people, to lean back against one wall. After a couple seconds, he starts laughing, thunking his head against Takatora’s shoulder. “I have no idea what people do at these things,” he admits. “Everyone coming out of this place just always looked like they were having fun, and I wanted to see you smiling like that.”

 

"They're probably drunk," Takatora darkly notes, very certain that most people that go to these kinds of places end up being drunkards. It's not like drinking at business meetings. That's very different. 

 

He sighs all the same, sagging back against the wall and resigning himself to being Ryouma's headrest. "I appreciate the sentiment," he says, sincerely and honestly, "but _really_ , Ryouma…have I ever enjoyed _anything_ like this?"  

 

Ryouma looks at him, and arches one eyebrow. “Honestly, Takatora,” he echoes in the same tone of voice, “have you ever _tried_ anything like this? How should I know what you’re going to like when you never leave your room? I had to try _something_.”

 

"Well, I don't like large crowds of people, I don't like noisy things, and I don't enjoy the idea of the potential repercussions," Takatora matter-of-factly says, blinking back down at him. "So, putting all of that together…"

 

Ryouma sighs, shoving his hair back from his face. “We can go eat late-night takoyaki or something if you really want to,” he offers. “I mean, now that we’re already out. I don’t want to stay if you seriously hate it.”

 

"We _are_ already out." He hopes that doesn't sound too utterly terrified. "Just…I'd rather spend time with you if we're going to be out like this, not with a bunch of strangers."

 

Ryouma snuggles his head against Takatora’s shoulder. That, as his great-aunt would say, is a boy that doesn’t get hugged enough. She’d also probably try to feed him natto and tell him about UFOs. “Yeah, sure, let’s go. Hey, how late is that good coffee shop open? I’d kill for one of their little cakes right now.”

 

"Late." It isn't as if he knows those hours by heart, because when summer and winter break comes along, there's _literally_ no better place to hide at for an hour or two. "Come on, enough rubbing your scent glands on me," Takatora lightly chides, easing Ryouma away from the wall. He's fairly certain the other boy is at least some part cat.

 

“No scent glands yet,” Ryouma says without a hint that he might be joking. “Science goes so far so fast.” He threads his arm through Takatora’s as the only sure way to make sure he doesn’t escape, leading him out through the exit and into the night air.

 

It’s fully night now, not a speck of color in the sky except what’s lit up by Yggdrasil. Ryouma sketches a little salute. “Say hello to our benevolent overlords,” he says with a grin, setting off for Takatora’s favorite shop. “Think we’ll be working for them someday? They only poach the best and brightest.”

 

Takatora doesn't consider himself the best of liars, but with this, he's been well-schooled. That's the key to it. "You'd be miserable," he frankly says, quickening his pace to keep from feeling too paranoid about being even remotely within sight of that enormous building. "I don't know what you're going to do with your life, but working for a corporation sounds like something you would hate." 

 

Ryouma shoves his hands in his pockets, making a face. “Dunno where else I could go that has the newest toys, though. I’d just have to find a good boss. What about you? If I’m the brightest, you’re the best.”

 

"I'm sure my father has a job outlined for me already." An understatement, that. God, he's never realized how close this coffee shop is to half a dozen clubs before. Maybe it's because he's never out at night. 

 

Even if he didn't want to be dragged out on this little excursion, Takatora _does_ feel guilty for not being that fun of a companion. Ryouma is a good friend, he just…doesn't understand the joy of downtime and quiet, Takatora thinks. "You can get whatever you want," he simply says, holding the door open for his friend. "It's my treat tonight." 

 

Ryouma flutters his eyelashes. “Such a gentleman. You should try using ‘ore’ tonight,” he suggests, absently browsing a menu he already has memorized. “I bet you’d like it, and no one would know.”

 

"I…no." It's already too late to stop the flush from rising to his face, and Takatora pointedly doesn't look at him. "I'm not going to do that. Imagine if it turned into a habit." His father would push him down a flight of stairs, most likely. 

 

“It’s not a _cigarette_ ,” Ryouma says, stifling a laugh. “You can always go back to ‘watashi’ tomorrow, and I’m not gonna tell anyone. Ah, sis, I’ll have the strawberry ice cream cake and a royal milk tea, please! What should we get for Mr. No Fun, here?”

 

 _It could be like a cigarette--just like being dragged out and around by you turned from 'just this once' to 'regular excursions.'_ Takatora just barely refrains from kicking him underneath the table. "The chocolate cake for me, and just an earl grey tea, thank you." He settles for glaring at Ryouma. "You're less endearing when you tell me that I'm not any fun." 

 

Ryouma sticks his tongue out briefly, commandeering their regular booth and sprawling across his side. Once, he’d managed to bring Takatora’s tea back to the science room and separate out all the tannins. That had been a crazy Tuesday. “I’m always cute. It makes you mad.”

 

"You're not cute right now. You're obnoxious. There is a difference, I'll have you know." 

 

Ryouma pokes Takatora’s knee with his foot under the table. “You’re mad,” he says again, “because you want to say it drives you nuts, but you know I’m fun. I’m the funnest guy you know, and that makes you crazy, right?”

 

Takatora steels his expression, refusing to even bat an eye and give Ryouma the satisfaction. "No. You're the _worst_. There is no one more awful that I could end up eating cake with on a Friday night." 

 

“And yet,” Ryouma says, with immense pleasure, “you’re still eating cake with me on a Friday night. Ahh, just admit it, this is the best Friday since…” He thinks quickly. “Since that time we tried out those bad jet-packs Kugenuma-kun and I put together.”

 

"Okay, no, _that_ was legitimately the worst idea you've ever had." 

 

“You’re not wrong.” Ryouma turns his spoon over, then decides, “No, you’re wrong, the underwater catapult was the worst idea, I think you’ll agree. Wow, why does your dad let you _go_ to our school? It’s really not safe.”

 

"He doesn't know about _you_ ," Takatora says, exasperated, as if it's terribly obvious. "If he did, he'd have you forcibly removed."

 

“That’s okay. I like being your dirty little secret.” There’s a wink, and then Ryouma digs into his cake, hopefully leaving Takatora sufficiently flustered and embarrassed. It’s not a very difficult task.

 

There's probably a joke there, but Takatora decides to just let it go over his head instead of contemplating it. His own cake is calling to him, besides. 

 

…which isn't the only thing calling him, unfortunately. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and Takatora leaves the spoon in his mouth when he pulls it out. Shit. Why of all nights does it have to be a call directly from his father's office? He can't answer this here. 

 

Muting the phone, he tucks it away again, no matter the nervous rush that brings. When has he _ever_ ignored any calls from his father or his associates? Maybe he can just…tell them he was in the shower, yes, something like that. He's going to need more cake to get through this.

 

Ryouma watches. Damn, he knows that look. That’s the _call from my father_ look. “We can go back when we’re done eating,” he offers. “Just say you were out with a cute girl.”

 

Takatora stares back. "You're joking, right? I could never tell him that."  

 

“Really? Why not?” That’s a mental note filed away. “I’d have thought your father would have liked that. Hmm, maybe you can say that you turned off your phone so you could _truly immerse_ yourself in your studies.” That sounds shockingly nerdy, which seems to be about the right amount for Takatora’s family.

 

"I'm not allowed to date, I've told you that before. Sometimes, I think you just ignore half of a conversation for the sake of your plans," Takatora mutters, feeling his phone start to ring again and he's going to have a panic attack at this rate. His cake is gone now, and it's unfortunate. "I'll figure out something to tell him. God, what if he showed up at the school looking for me." That's _so_ unlikely, but not impossible.

 

Ryouma stares. “As far as I know, he’s never, ever done that. Doesn’t he let you take baths? Or are you supposed to have your phone on in there, too?” He waves his spoon, dumping half of his strawberry onto Takatora’s plate. “Your little brother probably got hold of his phone.”

 

He can't exactly say that the call is coming from a very specific building in a very specific area, so Takatora just settles for anxiously destroying the strawberry in one bite instead. "For your information," he mumbles, "I take very quick showers because of this very reason."  

 

Ryouma’s face twists in displeasure. “Gross, Takatora.” Immediately, he flips the napkin over, pulls out a pencil, and starts absently sketching ideas for a waterproof cell phone. “Hey, we’re in the city,” he says, not looking up. “We could just go by his office. It’s around here somewhere, right?”

 

"No." He probably says that too quickly, but there's no taking it back now. "He…really doesn't like it when I stop by unannounced. Also, he doesn't need to know who you are, remember?" 

 

“I’m a delight,” Ryouma points out, adding a third line to one corner of his sketch, 90 percent absorbed in his drawing. “But fine, fine.” His mouth turns up at one corner, and he looks up to meet Takatora’s eyes. “Our fun crazy night didn’t go the way I expected. Sorry.”

 

 _None of your plans really do_ , Takatora wants to point out, but doesn't bother. He just breathes in a deep breath instead, and summons the tiniest of smiles. "Don't apologize. It's not your fault that I'm incapable of having fun." 

 

His phone rings for the third time, and his mind starts coming up with _ideas_. Maybe Mitsuzane is hurt. Maybe his father is remarrying. Maybe he found out about that English exam that he flunked and retook three times before getting a perfect score. Whatever it is, Takatora is sure that he's _ruined_. 

 

That’s just about as much of nervous, skittish Takatora as Ryouma can handle for one night. He groans, standing up and tugging at Takatora’s collar, hauling him to the door. “Come on, you’ll be miserable until you answer it. I know a shortcut back to school.”

 

"So long as we don't get caught," Takatora reflexively frets, barely even remembering to press a few bills into their hostess' hand on the way out. 

 

Whatever it is, they won't stop calling. Now, he's not even certain that it's his father. Maybe it is just Mitsuzane trying to get his attention. "What if something happened," he starts postulating out loud, "and they tried to find me on campus?"

 

“Do they know where your room is? All right, if you can’t say you were in the shower, how about late study with a teacher, or a study partner?” Ryouma beams. “They can’t expect you to have your phone on then.” He frowns slightly, and asks, “Who’s _they?_ I thought we were talking about your dad?”

 

Well, shit. "I am. Just--if he couldn't get up with me, maybe it was one of his colleagues, or someone else that works for my family…" A weak excuse and he knows it. Ryouma's too smart and that's usually a problem. Takatora takes a steadying breath. "Let's just get back already."

 

Ryouma does, fortunately, know a shortcut. It involves ducking through a cleaning shop, and through a hallway he’s not sure is for public access, but they manage to get home in about half the time it took them to get into the city. Ryouma leads them around the East side of the building, to a high fence that looks nigh on insurmountable. “Just like Zawame City,” he declares with a grin. “Built up real high...but shitty and full of holes below.” 

 

He kicks aside a loose bar near the ground, and ducks through. “Come on, we’re almost there.”

 

Breaking into things that his own family undoubtedly built somewhere along the way is really not the way Takatora wanted to spend his evening. 

 

 _How do you even know about all of this_ is on the tip of his tongue, but honestly, he doesn't want to know. It's probably better if he doesn't. "You know your way around here a little too well," he says instead. His phone isn't ringing anymore, and that's almost as nerve-wracking as the other option. 

 

“I like to know things,” is Ryouma’s glib response that says everything and nothing at the same time. There’s only a tiny low wall between them and the school proper, and that’s no burden even in his tight pants. “Gonna have to sneak back into your room, all my clothes are there,” he says breathlessly, eyes shining. “Come on, did you have even a little fun? You had _cake_.”

 

"I _did_ have cake," Takatora quietly agrees, honestly _wishing_ that he could have had the fun that Ryouma so obviously wanted him to have. Honestly, though, what did either of them really expect? 

 

Still--Ryouma looks so pleased with himself. That makes it a little better, in some odd way. "Come on, let's just go back and then I can deal with this." 

 

It's not the sneaking back to his room that's the problem. It's the fact that every single fear he had about the evening comes crashing down right into him when they turn the corner, and see not only a pair of men in suits, but the _headmaster_ perched outside of his room, the door wide open. One of the men makes a phone call, and Takatora's phone rings, and Takatora is sure that all color drains from his face immediately. 

 

Maybe he can just die. Mitsuzane can take over the company. He's the worst son, he's awful. 

 

Ryouma chews his lip for a second, thinking hard, and makes a decision. He wraps an arm around Takatora’s shoulder, and promptly stops supporting his own weight. “Aaahhh,” he calls loudly, infusing it with the right amount of pain and whininess. “Almost there, Takatora-kun...ah, I’d never have been able to get back on my own if you hadn’t been helping me, not with my ankle the way it is.” 

 

Not his _finest_ moment or performance, but there’s little else he can think of with no objects currently in his possession.

 

Headmaster Hoshimoto turns at the sound, and his face sags in relief at the sight of the two boys. “Ah, Sengoku-kun, Hidetoshi-kun,” he says, rushing over to them. “I was afraid you’d gotten lost somewhere. Playing the hero again, I should have known.”

 

Ryouma winks. Not for nothing does he usually let Takatora take the role of “savior” whenever things go bad.

 

Takatora makes a desperate mental note to make it all up to Ryouma _some day_ , even though he really has no idea how. 

 

"My deepest apologies, Headmaster." He can't quite look at the pair of men still standing guard by his dorm room, and oh, yes, he can _tell_ they're standing guard. Something has happened, he's sure of that now. "Sengoku-kun and I--we…" There is no way he's going to end up with a good excuse this fast, he's _not_ Ryouma when it comes to lying. "That's--is everything all right?" he finally just settles on, hefting Ryouma up more securely by an arm around his waist. 

 

There's a look that passes between the two suits, and that pit of dread just won't leave Takatora's stomach. "Hidetoshi-san," one of them says, obviously hesitating a bit with the fake name, "we need to speak with you privately." 

 

Ryouma takes the opportunity to throw himself dramatically onto the Headmaster, leaving Takatora free. “Go on, Takatora,” he says, giving him a brief smile. “I’m sure the Headmaster will see me and my ankle back to my room.”

 

There are some perks to being the brightest, if not necessarily the most _driven_ student in the school. There are more perks to having a great-aunt with a couple wings of said school named after her.

 

The Headmaster looks like he’s swallowed something unpleasant, but takes Ryouma into his arms without complaint. Honestly, Ryouma is fairly certain that it has more to do with not wanting the creepy suit guys to think there’s _anything_ he wouldn’t do for an injured student. 

 

 _Good luck_ , Ryouma mouths over the Headmaster’s shoulder as he’s carried away.

 

It ends up being the longest night that Takatora has experienced so far. 

 

He's still numb the next morning when he drags himself to class. He doesn't want to go, knows it's not exactly going to be something that continues, but he has to go and explain _properly_ to his teachers why this week is the last week of his classes. 

 

He'd rather not explain it to Ryouma, but that, too, is unavoidable. 

 

"A wonderful student such as yourself will be missed, Hidetoshi-kun," the first teacher says sympathetically. "And of course, my condolences are extended." 

 

"Thank you." 

 

Odd, that he doesn't feel like crying. Mostly, he just wants to sleep. Takatora sucks in a steadying breath when he walks from the lecture hall, shutting the door behind himself. 

 

“Hey.”

 

Ryouma is in Takatora’s room, sitting in one of the uncomfortable pieces of provided furniture, no doubt intended to toughen up their moral character. He looks uncomfortably at the cake on the table, a thick huge chocolate monstrosity on the table. “I, uh. I heard about your dad. I’m sorry.”

 

People tell him things. Well, he manages to hear them. That’s a skill.

 

Dimly, Takatora registers that he's hungry, and that cake presses about half a dozen buttons. Still, he's fairly certain that if he eats right now, he's going to throw up. "Things happen," he dully offers, dropping down onto the edge of his mattress, his legs feeling like they're made of lead.

 

Bringing this up makes him feel even sicker, but it's better now, rather than later. "I have to move away, for the business, and for Mitsuzane. This is my last official day of classes, actually." It's the cover story he's been firmly told to spread, and it's worked so far.

 

Sixteen, and already an Important Man. Ryouma can’t think of anything more horrible. “Yeah, I figured it was something like that.” He tries for a smile, even though it probably looks fake. “Hey, go be important. Maybe if you’re good enough I’ll come work for you someday.”

 

Takatora can't summon the strength to suppress that wince. "Ryouma. There is no way you would ever enjoy working for me." 

 

“Takatora, my friend, you know full well that I make my own fun.”

 

"That's what frightens me." Takatora sighs, resting his hands onto his knees. "I would say I could stay in touch, but…I'm honestly not allowed to. Sorry." 

 

Ryouma raises an eyebrow. Huh. That’s...interesting. He waves a hand, looking more careless than he feels. “No need to apologize. It’s out of your hands, right?”

 

 _Everything usually is_. No, he can't be so defeatist this early in the day. Takatora heaves a shrug. "Apparently so." Awkwardly, he holds out a hand. "For what it's worth, you have been a good friend, Ryouma." _Even if you've given me more headaches than anyone else I've ever known._

 

Ryouma glares down at that hand, grabbing Takatora in for a hug instead. “Don’t be so serious all the time,” he says, knowing full well that it won’t work. “Blame me for it if you have to sneak out every once in a while and have fun, okay? And try using ‘ore’ when you’re alone.”

 

 _This_ was why he didn't want to really touch Ryouma right now.

 

There's enough tension just in his shoulders that it hurts to keep his breath stable and steady. Takatora desperately thinks about how horrible it would be if he cried. The last time was probably when he was two years old, and it's not like he remembers that. 

 

"I'm not going to do that," he mumbles, taking another deep breath before he pries himself away. "Thank you, though." 

 

“Yeah.” Ryouma can feel how close Takatora is to breaking down. For a minute, he wants to force it, to grab him close again and tell him that it’s fine, Ryouma is here for him and might even _want_ to see him reduced to the quiet beauty inside him…

 

That’s probably weird, though.

 

“Take care of yourself. Or I’ll find you and do it for you.”

 

Famous last words. 

 

Thinking back on it, Takatora should have looked far more thoroughly at _names on applications_ rather than _skill sets_. 

 

 _In what way does this constitute taking care of me,_ he crossly thinks all the same as he makes his way down to Ryouma's lab late in the evening, shuts off his computer monitor, and drops a stack of take-out boxes in front of him. Mostly, he feels like he had a second child. The first was Mitsuzane. "When is the last time that you ate, exactly." 

 

The noise barely gets through the fugue state Ryouma has been in for...he has no idea how long. He slowly, fuzzily looks up, blinking red eyes as he looks up at Takatora. “Hmm? Not sure.” He licks his hand, and tastes peach juice. He doesn’t exactly remember eating a peach, but the interns put things into his hands sometimes. “I’m making progress. We’ll have the first proper driver ready to try in a few weeks, no longer.”

 

"Don't lick your hands like that, you have no idea what your interns have been feeding you." Takatora reaches over him from behind, and promptly pulls over a cup of bubble tea to thrust it directly into Ryouma's face. "A few weeks sounds like a long time for you. Is it the lack of test subjects holding you back?" 

 

Ryouma waves a hand, then snatches a straw, draining half of the bubble tea in a couple seconds flat. Huh. Apparently he was thirsty. “Can’t test it on just anyone, you know. It immediately bonds to the person, changes their body chemistry, the whole works. Any time I make a prototype, I have to factor in _anything_ that person might be, think, eat, drink, or do that could throw my data off. Chromium is cheap, but I think I’m going to have to go with an alloy after all,” he muses, fishing out a tapioca pearl and slurping it down, still lost in numbers. “The pure metal is just too unstable.”

 

Takatora pulls up a chair, dropping himself down onto it and crossing his legs. "Test it out on me." It seems like the logical choice, really, but he certainly isn't going anywhere. This is _his_ company, _their_ plans, and Ryouma certainly has reliable access to him. He patiently opens up one of the takeout boxes--noodles--and pushes chopsticks into the other man's hand. "I'll also be able to keep up on the progress even more so, and that's important to me when you're usually half-dead down here." 

 

“Absolutely not.” Ryouma’s voice is sharp, and his hand closes hard around the chopsticks, eyes burning when he looks up at Takatora. “You’re much too important to risk like that. _Anything_ could go wrong at this stage.”

 

"Isn't that even more the case if you're testing it out on someone who is nothing but unknowns to you?" Takatora points out. "The chance of you having to take even _more_ time doesn't sit well with me. Test it out on me, and you'll have the reliable results that you need." 

 

Ryouma stares at him, absently reaching for the box of noodles and picking a few up. “Is there something you’re not telling me?” he asks. “Has our timetable moved? A few weeks is still good, Takatora. It’s certainly not worth the life of our most important citizen.”

 

Takatora shoots him an exasperated look. "In what way am I the most important citizen?" He shrugs, leaning back into his chair. "I suppose I'm just anxious. I dislike feeling like I'm doing absolutely nothing." Writing a metric ton of checks doesn't count. 

 

“You can’t possibly believe that.” Ryouma takes a bite, makes a face, and swallows it to make Takatora happy. “You’re the soul behind the whole thing. Don’t you realize what you’re doing for the world? You’ve taken a crisis and turned it into a way to take our species to the next level!” Ryouma’s breath catches sometimes when he thinks about it, about everything they’re _achieving_. “You told us to find a way to save humanity. Because of you, we’re going to be so much more than safe.” _We’re going to be gods._

 

"Ryouma…" Sometimes, Takatora isn't sure if it's the fact that Ryouma unknowingly starves himself, or if it's the fact that he's always been close to the edge of insanity that brings about these strange little hiccups. Well, considering what they say about genius… "Right now, this isn't about taking our species to any other levels," he gently reminds him, reaching out to rest a hand on his knee. "Right now, this is about survival. We'll worry about the rest once you've perfected everything. It's _your_ talent I'm relying on here, remember that." 

 

Ryouma stares, tense for a long minute, before breaking eye contact. “I haven’t slept for a really long time,” he says honestly, giving Takatora a wry little smile. “Just don’t scare me by saying you’re going to be my first prototype tester. Who’s going to lead the company if it kills you, Mitsuzane?”

 

That idea brings a little shudder down Takatora's spine, and he's not even entirely sure why. "That's not going to happen. First of all, because they're _your_ prototypes," he firmly says, squeezing Ryouma's knee. "And they're already usually close to perfection. At any rate, you have a week to find someone that you can continue testing on, and if that doesn't happen effectively, then I will be stepping in as needed." 

 

Ryouma huffs, slumping forward to thunk his forehead against Takatora’s chest, burying his nose in the valley between those firm pectorals. “A _real_ CEO would just offer me up an endless supply of interns and disposable teenagers,” he informs Takatora, with just the slightest bit of irony in his tone.

 

Ryouma must be feeling better now, considering the beeline for his chest. Well, that's good. Takatora dislikes having to tiptoe around him and his science. "Does the idea of having that many lab rats really appeal to you so much?" he dryly asks, sliding a hand down the back of Ryouma's head. "We're trying to save people, not kill or cripple more of them." 

 

Ryouma huffs out a breath, nuzzling into the expensive fabric. Yes, this is better. “I don’t like testing on all those people,” he mumbles, “but there’s a difference between appreciating the necessity of it and having to risk murdering the person I...hmph, I just don’t want to risk you. You’re too important to me.” Not like he’s ever made a secret of it.

 

"I trust you." Takatora curls his fingers right at the base of Ryouma's skull, just where his ponytail is cinched, and gently pulls. "I know that's not the point, but I can be just as stubborn about this as you are. I want to help you make this really work. Also, I happen to think I'm fairly hard to kill." 

 

If Ryouma were a cat, he’d be purring. As it is, he just makes a soft gurgling noise. He chews on his lip a little, and admits, “I _will_ work a little more carefully if I know it’s going to be you putting it on. And--hmm. I _do_ already have all of your specs.” All of the drivers are designed for Takatora. They always have been. 

 

Honestly, he should have kept that in mind before now, he realizes, pulling back slightly as his brow furrows. He doesn’t even notice the way his fingers fly to the computer, plugging in new specs and designs, ideas firing faster than his brain can process whole word concepts.

 

It would be a little early to call this _the missing link_. It wouldn’t, however, be incorrect.

 

_At least I got a single bite of food into him._

 

Either way, Takatora will call this a success for right now. He also takes care to specifically open up the box that has strawberry cake in it, and put it within easy reach. At least Ryouma will eat that without thinking. "If you need me, call--don't send Lemony5." Or whatever their name is this time. Ryouma is probably too out of it to correct him. 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Takatora actually doesn't walk in on that many strange things these days, and that's a relief. 

 

Ryouma has, at least, taken the threat of _send more Lemonys to my office, and I will burn them_ seriously. It's not that he couldn't build something fire-resistant. It's more the fact that he doesn't want his precious creations destroyed in any way, and knows that Takatora will go through with his threats. 

 

Instead, he calls. Sometimes, he knocks. Usually, he just walks right in, which is something that Takatora has gotten used to. 

 

Today, it's somewhat reminiscent of the first day the strange thing came to work at Yggdrasil, except with Ryouma being curled up on the floor asleep.

 

That means one thing and one thing only--an improvement or breakthrough of some sort. Why Ryouma feels the need to come to his office and wait for his arrival at the crack of dawn, Takatora honestly has no idea. He could just as easily _call_ , and he's proven in the past that he knows where Takatora lives…

 

With a sigh, Takatora sets down his briefcase, and kneels down to scoop the ball of a scientist off the ground, plopping him down shortly onto the long, narrow couch tucked away in a corner of his office. There's a reason for that being here. It's this one--this one right here, because literally no one else ever sits in it. It's just Ryouma's bed, nine times out of ten. 

 

…And actually, that's fine, because he's here _so_ early today, and thinking about work before Ryouma is even awake seems like a lot of effort. Takatora settles for dropping down onto the floor next to the couch, and shuts his eyes for just a minute. 

 

It turns out to be far more than that, but who's counting.

 

Ryouma sleeps like a dead thing when he’s happy.

 

Discoveries, and breakthroughs, they make him happy. Telling Takatora about them makes him happy, and even if he can’t do that, being on the man’s floor, curled up and waiting, is good enough.

 

At some point, he has a dream, eats an apple, and chokes on the skin. That’s enough to wake him, and he rolls over.

 

At least, he _would_ have rolled over had he been on the floor. As it is, he rolls off the couch and onto Takatora asleep on the ground. “Unfgh,” he grunts, then buries his face in Takatora’s chest. No use wasting the position. “How’d you get down there, Takatora?”

 

Ryouma, for being mostly legs, is heavy. Takatora grunts underneath the weight, blearily stares up at the ceiling, and honestly contemplates that question. "I forget," he honestly confesses, but his arm finds its way slung about Ryouma all the same. There are definitely some wrinkles in his suit now, and his hair is probably sticking out in some strange directions. The point, however, is that Ryouma's on him. "How long have you been sleeping in here, exactly?" 

 

“Dunno. What day is it?” Ryouma nuzzles into Takatora’s neck, inhaling deeply without bothering to hide it. Takatora always smells _fantastic_.

 

"Monday." Pause. "Have you been in here all weekend?" Takatora incredulously asks, making a half-hearted attempt at sitting up only to flop back down with a sigh. He lifts one arm instead, getting a good look at his watch before deciding to stop thinking about it. _He_ hasn't been asleep for too long, thankfully. 

 

Ryouma grins, and rests his chin on his hands, folded up on Takatora’s chest. “Don’t remember. Mm, don’t you want to know what happened?” They both know something’s happened. He’s never in here like this unless it has.

 

"I always want to know what's happened." Damn. Ryouma's ticking the cute box already. Isn't it too early for that? Takatora strangles down a groan. "Go on, tell me good things." 

 

“It’s ready.” The words taste like fizzing bubbles on his tongue, and Ryouma’s nearly fidgeting on top of him, hands making mindless biscuits on Takatora’s chest. “The Sengoku Driver, _your_ driver. It’s perfect for you.”

 

"Already?" It's so soon that Takatora is actually startled by it. Then again, this is Ryouma--when he sets his mind to something, it's _going_ to happen, come hell or high water. Takatora forces himself up onto his elbows, his hands grabbing for Ryouma's to at least briefly keep them still. "Ryouma…if this really works, that means we can move _forward_." The idea of it had been enough relief--the fact that Ryouma has already made this much progress is something on another level. Takatora's fingers tighten, squeezing. " _You're_ perfect."

 

“That’s a dumb compliment,” Ryouma says, delighted anyway and determined to knead Takatora’s chest, no matter the objections. “Tell me I’m brilliant. I am, you know.” And that, combined with everything that Takatora is, his curiosity, his determination, his unutterable _goodness_ , is what will truly save the world.

 

"I thought that was a given." There's no point in trying to stop Ryouma now, and he deserves it, anyway. Takatora sighs, releasing his hands and flopping backwards again. "You're brilliant," he obediently offers up anyway. "Perfectly so." 

 

“I know I am,” Ryouma says, digging his nails in a little now that he’s been given permission--yesssssss, this is half of the reward he needs. The other half will be when he sees Takatora in that suit, standing proud and strong and ready to lead them all into a new era. “I didn’t say I didn’t know it, I said you should tell me.” He tilts his head down, and nibbles at Takatora’s earlobe, tugging on it as his hands knead harder.

 

It's clearly pointless to argue _but I tell you all the time_. Ah, well. Maybe any other man would need to _see_ this so-called driver in action before feeling at ease, but _Ryouma_ is the one who made it. If there's anyone that Takatora can put all of his faith in, it's this man.

 

Thank whatever gods there are for that.

 

It's cathartic. Takatora allows himself to sag down into the floor with a rush of breath leaving his lungs, his eyes lidding when he splays a hand over Ryouma's back, dragging it down his spine. "The door," he wryly points out, "isn't even locked. Be good." It's very doubtful that will happen.

 

Ryouma pulls back, rather affronted. He jumps up, not needing his hands to do so, and dramatically flips the lock shut, and the shades down on the windows. “Rude,” he says, “and unnecessary. Who would have the gall to burst in here without knocking?”

 

"You," Takatora points out without batting an eye, slowly peeling himself off of the floor. He makes it a few inches before the dropping down onto the couch. "At every opportunity. Mostly, you relish picking locks, though. What did I hire you for again?" 

 

“Science, I presume.” Ryouma’s eyes widen, and he sets his knees towards either side of Takatora’s hips, slinking down onto him. “Or maybe because you liked the way I look in these jeans? You thought I was hot in high school.”

 

Takatora opens his mouth to protest, but that seems rather…unproductive. "What ever gave you that idea?" he mutters instead, leaning back and curling his fingers loosely about the other man's hips, through his belt loops. He can't quite help it, not when he's as happy as he's been in awhile, and Ryouma is so… _Ryouma._

 

“Why _wouldn’t_ you think I was hot?” Ryouma asks logically. “I am. Mm, you should give me a reward for getting the driver all ready for you. I deserve one.” The way he drapes his arms over Takatora’s shoulders, then slowly wriggles on his lap, might be a hint that he isn’t thinking about a raise.

 

His mouth is dry, which makes it actually fairly difficult to think and swallow. "You do deserve one," Takatora agrees all the same, his fingers sliding down further, curling over the perfect curve of Ryouma's ass. If he didn't think Ryouma was hot in high school, maybe he was just too distracted. That _must_ have been it. His hands squeeze, pulling Ryouma deeper into his lap. "You can have whatever you want."

 

“I want you.” It shouldn’t be a surprise, by now. With Takatora, Ryouma always sort of gets the impression that it still is. He mouths hot and wet over the curve of the man’s neck, down the front of his artfully unbuttoned shirt. _All of you. Your mind and your body and your soul, and you can have mine...because we’re one and the same. Aren’t we, Takatora?_

 

Right now, it's a given.

 

Takatora's groan catches up in his throat, low and rumbling, and he lurches up, his own mouth closing over the lobe of one ear, sucking that earring into his mouth to gently tug. Even after all this time, he's fairly certain that the fire Ryouma lights within him is unfair. He's not _supposed_ to have distractions like this, but everything Ryouma does makes things work more smoothly, gives him relief and something resembling hope…

 

He can indulge, once in awhile. 

 

"I need to fuck you," is the urgent rumble against Ryouma's ear, and even just saying that makes Takatora's cock ache. Being able to be less than polite--less than _perfect_ around someone strips away at least a dozen layers of stress that Takatora didn't even know that he _had_. 

 

Hearing those words rasped in Takatora’s usually-composed voice is something Ryouma will never tire of as long as he lives. That plus the tugging on his earring is more than unfair, and he doesn’t waste a second in standing up just long enough to shove his jeans down and off. Takatora has tried undressing him in the past, but the jeans are something of a special case, and need to come off in a very particular fashion.

 

Whatever, they’re off now, and Ryouma only has time to undo Takatora’s trousers before climbing back on. “How do you want me?” he asks, breathy and low as his fingernails scrape over the other man’s scalp. “Just do it, I want you in me.”

 

"God, _Ryouma_ \--" This really is about as far from scheduled or planned as it gets, and that makes Takatora dizzy from the need to be _in him_. He's learned, though, because it's not the first damned time that Ryouma's shown up in his office and something like this has happened. There are other purposes for couches--furniture in general--and _that's_ why there's a condom or five stuffed down into the cushion ( _he_ still plans), easily enough fished out even with fumbling fingers.

 

Takatora's cock twitches, achingly hard against Ryouma's thigh when Takatora smoothes his hands over his back and hauls him close, arching up to mouth a few wet, hot kisses over the column of his throat. "Put it on me," he breathlessly orders. "I want you to ride me." 

 

Ah, shit, now he’s going lightheaded. It can’t be helped when Takatora talks like that, drags him like that, orders him around like that. Ryouma grabs the condom even as his back arches, his thighs squeezing around Takatora’s waist. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds for him to slide the lubed condom on, not after all the practice he’s had with it. 

 

That’s enough. He’s good at taking cock (has enough practice to join Japan’s national team for the Olympics) and loves it besides. Even more, he loves the obscene stretch when the head of Takatora’s cock slides inside him, and his breath catches hard when he bucks down. “I’m going to do this when you’re wearing the suit,” he groans, his cock hardening further when he imagines it.

 

 _There's_ a button Takatora didn't know he had. 

 

Realistically, when _doesn't_ he think that every time he's in bed with Ryouma? This, though--it might also have a lot to do with the fact that Ryouma takes his cock like he's made for it, wriggles down like he _loves it_ , and Takatora's head falls back against the back of the couch, his lips parted for a ragged gasp of breath when his fingers knead into Ryouma's ass and pull him _down_. 

 

"You're a pervert," Takatora desperately manages to accuse, though he's not any better, not when his cock _throbs_ , not when he drags a hand up and gets it all wrapped up into Ryouma's hair, hauling him down for a wet, needy kiss. "You're _perfect_ ," is the corrected groan that escapes only a moment later, when he's balls deep and fucking up into every roll of Ryouma's hips.

 

“I’m both,” Ryouma gasps out readily. Takatora is in him so deep he can see stars, can see the future, can taste that cock in his throat, and nothing but science has ever felt better. 

 

He kisses Takatora as if he’ll never have another chance, kisses him greedily, hungrily, biting and sucking at his lips and tongue, undulating on his cock and begging wordlessly for more. 

 

He can’t help but imagine it, either. That form-fitting suit would cover Takatora just right, and he’d feel the underside of his cock scraping against the driver like this, all while that faceless mask stared up at him and that thick cock filled him over and over, stuffing him to bursting—

 

 _Remind me to put some kind of a fly into it_ , he thinks for a fleeting, hilarious moment. Then reality asserts itself with a vicious thrust inside him, and Ryouma cries out, bouncing hard and fast, fucking himself on Takatora’s cock. “More,” he demands, fingers tangling in dark hair. “Harder, Takatora, _Takatora_ —”

 

Normally, sensibility would take over at this point, and he'd tell Ryouma to _be quiet_. 

 

Fuck it. 

 

 _Nothing_ feels better but having his cock that deep in Ryouma, _nothing_ , and Takatora's sure that his nails leave scores down the other man's back, that his fingers leave bruises when he grabs and yanks him down, holds him in place for a few moments just to slam his cock up into him, fucking him hard enough that his own breath is stolen from his lungs. 

 

The noises that he makes--every whine and squeak and whimper--that's more than enough. Takatora's mind clicks off, focusing only on where they're connected, and there's finally a moment when he just can't stand it anymore. It doesn't take much effort to just flip the other man, shoving him down onto the couch, grabbing at those long legs and hauling Ryouma exactly where he wants him, all the better to fuck him down into the cushions with long, needy thrusts of his hips, Takatora's mouth hot on that perfect throat, one hand wrapped up into silky hair, now thoroughly tousled. 

 

"You're _mine_ \--" is the last, ragged groan that escapes against Ryouma's skin, and Takatora spills into the condom with another, bitten back sound that might be Ryouma's name, his entire body a shivering, shaking mess when every little twitch that rakes down his spine makes his bones feel like goo.

 

Ryouma almost _never_ gets Takatora to take him like this.

 

This...this is a gift. He rides it out, bucking into every thrust, shoving down on every hard motion, until he feels Takatora taking him brutally, finishing in him like he’s little more than a _receptacle_ , and loving every filthy second of it.

 

It’s so good that he doesn’t even care whether or not he gets off, not when this is so much more emotionally, mentally satisfying. He’d be content to lay here hard and aching for _hours_ , but he knows Takatora, knows the man pulsing hard in his ass. There would be a _thing_ about it, maybe some strange guilt, and Ryouma solves that by taking himself in hand, dragging out the pleasure for a few long hard strokes. “Takatora,” he groans, clenching down on the cock still in him as he starts to shake, “ _Takatora_.”

 

It’s enough. This man is the only one that could ever be enough, he knows with sudden clarity as he comes over his fingers, squirming slowly down.

 

It takes _effort_ not to just collapse. Every bone in his body feels decidedly useless, and Takatora sags heavily down onto an elbow, bracing it next to Ryouma's head. "Ryouma," he breathes out, his face buried into the other man's hair, his breath still hot and ragged against his skin. 

 

He can feel the sweat trickling down his spine, every bit of skin they've exposed sticking together, and that finally brings him to just give in, sinking down on top of him. "You're…" There's _nothing_ that could put Ryouma into words, Takatora is sure of that. 

 

Ryouma promptly folds Takatora up in his arms, yanking him close as he squashes them both into the comfortable couch, wriggling off of that softening cock. “You,” he says firmly, and stretches out his long legs, entangling them slowly with Takatora’s. “Mm. Takatora.”

 

"Mm." Less mess at the start of the day is always a good thing, so thank god for condoms and the ease of just peeling it off and tossing it into the wastebasket before settling down properly. Takatora's stuffs his face into Ryouma's neck, breathing in deep. 

 

Ryouma closes his eyes, snuggling against the man curled up against his chest. “Yeah. Love you.” He does, he thinks. He knows. Always has, is unable to stop, doesn’t care to.

 

Some odd, particular bit of tension unravels. There's a pause, and Takatora shifts slightly without lifting his head from Ryouma's neck. "Mm." Another pause, and he remembers to breathe, even though he thinks this is all really strangely _not_ awkward and sort of good instead. "Love you, too." 

 

He does. He knows that.


End file.
